I tilt my face into the water and let it run over my cheeks, mixing with the tears I refuse to acknowledge.
When I finally step out, I wrap myself in one of the oversized towels and pad into the bedroom, then pause when I see the fresh bouquet of soft-pink peonies on the side table. Ian must have just brought them in.
When we first got here, there were white ones delivered on the same day, along with a new diary. One with ‘Cherry-red’ on the cover.
Six days later, purple peonies arrived. Six days after, coral. And now these… six days after the last.
It’s a pattern now.
Reth knows peonies are my favorite, that I once wrote in my diary about how their soft, messy petals remind me of things that look delicate but refuse to fall apart.
My chest tightens until it hurts to breathe. These flowers are the cruelest kindness. Proof that he’s alive, that he’s thinking of me, and yet every bloom feels like another reminder that he’s not here to hand them to me himself. That he’s somewhere else, paying for my safety with pieces of himself I may never get back.
I reach out and brush a fingertip across one velvet petal, and it trembles under my touch. God, I miss him so much it feels like madness.
I dress quickly in the clothes Ian laid out for me—soft black leggings, a cream cashmere sweater that’s far too nice for someone who’s spent three weeks in tears, and thick socks. My hair is still damp when I pull it into a loose knot. I don’t bother with makeup. I don’t have the energy to pretend I’m anything other than what I am right now.
After pulling on my knee-high boots, I step into the foyer. It’s smaller than the rest of the apartment, intimate and warm, with dark oak floors. A large mirror in a simple brass frame reflects the soft light from the crystal chandelier overhead. It feels like the kind of space people pause in before stepping out into the world—except I’ve been avoiding that world for twenty-four days.
Ian leans against the wall, arms crossed, wearing a black coat over a dark sweater. He looks effortlessly put-together, as always. When he sees me, his mouth curves into that familiar half-smirk.
“Well, look at you. Almost human.” His eyes flick over me approvingly. “Cashmere suits you, Crazy. Makes you look less like a feral raccoon who lost a fight with her own head.”
I roll my eyes, but there’s no bite in it. “You picked it out.”
“Obviously. I have taste. You have… emotional attachment to sweatpants.” He pushes off the wall and holds out my coat. “Ready?”
I hesitate at the door, fingers tightening around the collar of the coat. The city is right there, one elevator ride away.
Paris.
The place I used to dream about in quiet moments between case files and cheap takeout. Now it feels like a betrayal to even want to see it.
Ian watches me, his usual sarcasm softening just a fraction.
“Hey,” he says quietly. “One café. One croissant. One walk in the rain. If it sucks, we come straight back and I’ll let you wallow in silence for the rest of the day. Deal?”
I swallow hard, then nod once. “Deal.”
He opens the door and gestures for me to go first, that wicked little grin returning as I step past him. “Try not to cry on the pastries. The French take that shit personally.”
“God,” I roll my eyes, “I’m already regretting this.”
Ian chuckles softly behind me as I walk toward the elevator. He closes the heavy door, locking the apartment—and the soft-pink peonies—behind us.
Six days. Another bouquet will arrive in six days.
I can already picture it, fresh stems, perfect petals, chosen with the same ruthless precision Reth uses for everything. A silent message from wherever he is right now, bleeding or breaking or becoming something worse.
The question isn’t whether he’s still alive. The question is how much of the man who painted my words on ceilings and made me come while reciting my diary will still be left when he finally finds his way back to me.
I pull my coat tighter against the cold Parisian wind and follow Ian into the rain-soaked street, heart beating too hard for someone who’s only going for coffee. Because the flowers keep coming, and I’m terrified that one day soon… they might stop.
2
RETH
Flashback
