And then I tell her everything. Every single explicit detail. The way they took care of me.
The way Ryker hovered without hovering. The way Jude anticipated my needs before I voiced them. The way Dorian never left my side when it mattered most.
Wren listens, eyes shining, hands resting on her belly. “You deserve that,” she says softly when I finish.
I swallow hard. “I know. And thank you for the berries. You didn’t have to go to all that trouble.”
She lets out a loud laugh. “Remember when it was my turn? You brought me flowers, and I can tell you they really helped me. It was nice to see them…after, you know, getting folded like a pretzel for a couple of days.”
That makes me almost choke in laughter.
“You filthy girl.”
“Norah, please. You were gone five whole days. You are hardly a saint.”
I’m still leaning against the counter, cheeks warm from laughing, when the bell over the door jingles again.
I turn, expecting Beau with cocoa.
Instead, it’s Simon.
He has a paper bag tucked under his arm and snow dusting his dark coat, curls a little damp from the cold. He freezes the second he sees me, brown eyes widening before softening into something warm and deeply relieved.
“Well,” he says, voice gentle and familiar in that doctor way that makes people breathe easier without realizing it. “There you are.”
“Hi,” I say, smiling before I even mean to.
He steps closer, setting the bag on the counter. “I ran into Beau on my way over. He said you were back. How are you doing?”
I open my mouth with a dozen answers lined up and settle on the truest one. “I’m really good.”
His gaze sharpens, professional instinct flaring, but not in a way that feels invasive. He’s assessing color, posture, and the way I’m standing easily on my feet.
“Any dizziness? Nausea? Residual pain?”
“No,” I say. “Just tired in a good way.”
He nods, satisfied. Then his attention shifts to Wren. He reaches out and rubs her belly with the back of his fingers, slow and absent-minded.
It’s the gentlest motion, practiced and protective all at once, and she leans into the touch like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Bagel delivery,” he says, nudging the paper bag toward her. “Everything bagel with extra cream cheese. You texted like it was an emergency.”
“It was,” she says solemnly, then grins. “You’re my hero.”
He laughs softly, eyes crinkling. “How’s the shop holding up?”
Wren snorts. “Running a flower shop while pregnant should count as an extreme sport.”
I glance around, really looking this time.
The place is stunning.
Buckets are full and overflowing, colors layered with intention. Winter greens and deep reds, soft whites tucked between bold pops of pink and gold.
Everything is organized, labeled, and displayed like care has been poured into every inch of the space.
“Oh, wow,” I breathe, turning slowly. “You guys did all this?”
