Page 45

I turn back to face him, feeling oddly exposed. “Thanks,” is all I can get out.

His expression softens into something shy. “Ye’re welcome, Triona. It… suits you.”

Caught up in the moment, I feel a sudden urge to close the distance between us. Before I can talk myself out of it, I lean in and wrap my arms around him.

He stiffens, surprised—but only for a second. Then he exhales and pulls me in, his arms folding around me with quiet sincerity. The burden of everything—of fear, of tension, of uncertainty—eases as I rest against him. For longer than is necessary, I let myself stay there in his arms.

Then he gently pulls back and nods toward the pasture.

“Come on,” he says. “Follow me to go grab Aisling before she eats her weight in clover.”

The mare lifts her head as we approach, ears flicking forward. She’s halfway through munching a patch of wildflowers, unbothered by our presence.

But just as I step forward to greet her, my boot catches on a rut in the ground—small, invisible, and perfectly placed to sabotage me.

I overcorrect when I try to catch myself, and I go down hard, landing flat on my back with a surprised yelp. The fall knocks the wind out of me for a second—but then the absurdity hits. I burst into laughter, clutching my stomach, helpless to stop.

Finn leans down, laughter dancing in his eyes. “Are you all right?” he asks, though the grin on his face tells me he is more entertained than concerned. “Ye’d think someone as attentive as you would be more mindful of yer surroundin’s.”

The corners of his mouth twitch before they fully surrender to amusement, and when he laughs, it’s not loud or mocking—but soft, warm, and impossible not to feel. The mirth in his smile lights up his entire face, a glow that chases away any trace of embarrassment I might have felt with anyone else.

I roll my eyes at him, but there’s no hiding my smile. It tugs at my lips before I can stop it, betraying the way his laughter always gets to me.

Then I gasp, bolting upright, hands flying to my pocket.. “The flowers!” I exclaim, frantically checking the small bundle of primrose I’d brought out with me. To my relief, they’re intact—not a petal out of place. I hold them up, grinning in triumph.

I catch a flicker in Finn’s eyes—a softness, maybe even curiosity.

“What’ve you got there?” he asks, his tone genuine.

“If you must know,” I say, holding up the bundle, “it’s primrose. I woke up to them on my bedside table.”

A breath passes before I add, “It’s something my mother used to do. I hadn’t seen them in so long, I almost forgot she ever did this. You know I’ve such a shite memory, so that’s hardly a surprise.”

We both laugh at that.

I bring the purple flowers with their heart-shaped petals down on my lap, a fond smile tugging at my lips.

Finn lowers himself to the ground beside me, crossing his arms over his knees, watching me with that steady gaze of his.

“So?” he finally says, a bit of teasing in his voice. “What’s got you leapin’ to save a handful of flowers?”

I shrug. “It just… it feels important. To keep them all. Or it used to.”

Finn tilts his head, his voice softer now. “You keep all of ‘em?”

I nod, brushing my thumb over the edge of a petal. “Most of the time. Except in instances where I trip and fall and crush them into oblivion.”

I smile, but there’s a hint of shyness tugging at the edges of it now. “I used to press them into books,” I admit. “Slide them between the pages so I’d come across them again when I was reading.” I glance over at him, my voice softer still. “And when you were away, I sent them to you. Tucked in with the letters. Like you said before—I wanted you to have a piece of home.”

The grin slips from his face, replaced by something softer, more thoughtful. He says nothing at first, but I can feel the shift—the quiet settling between us like the scent of the flowers, warm and subdued.

There’s a beat before I speak again. “You know, this flower is what my father used to win my mother over,” I tell him, gently turning the bundle in my hands. “He always said, ‘In the language of flowers, it represents the joy of youth and a celebration of adolescent love.’” I mimic my father’s dramatic tone, and Finn lets out a muted chuckle.

“In full bloom, the primrose is hard to ignore. He said the love he had for my mother was like that—not always out loud and proud, but hard to miss.”

I can almost see my father, bent over, carefully picking the flowers, waiting for the right time, the right season, to give her that special gift. “They bloom their brightest from May to July, so he waited, patient as anything, collecting them to make that one bottle of scent for her.” I shake my head, laughing softly.

Finn is quiet for a long moment. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, thoughtful even. “You should wake up to flowers on yer bedside table every day, Triona.”