I hung up, staring at my hands, marked by the tension of yarn and needle. I almost laughed at myself—so invested insomething I’d been too afraid to send. Maybe this year I would, maybe I wouldn’t. I wasn’t sure yet, but each stitch brought her a little closer, and that was enough for now.
As I started another petal, a soft knock at the door startled me. Setting the yarn down, I pushed up my glasses and opened it to find Mikkel standing there.
Standing there, as composed as ever in a neat white shirt and matching linen, Mikkel exuded calm with his honey-brown eyes and smile that made you feel at ease without a word. He’d always been the sweetest of us, the steady one whose presence spoke louder than the flashy displays our group was known for.
His company, Elite Rides, was expanding into every major city, but Mikkel was the kind of billionaire who kept a low profile—a man of few words and genuine kindness. Even his knock had been gentle, almost like he was checking if he could intrude.
“Hope I’m not interrupting,” he said, holding up a small gift bag.
He stepped in, his gaze lingering on the glass of wine, the half-melted ice cream, and the set of peony petals I’d already completed. He looked back at me, a slight frown creasing his usually calm features.
“I tried calling, but you didn’t pick up.” He set down the gift bag. “Thought I’d better check on you myself.”
“Sorry.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “Just took the day off.”
Mikkel gave me a knowing look, one brow raised. “Ronan, you don’t take days off.”
I almost laughed. He was right. I was always at work, whether in the office or the hospital. “I make an exception once a year.”
He nodded slowly. “I stopped by your office before coming here. Rachel filled me in. She said you take the day every year.”
“Yeah,” I mumbled, clearing my throat as he took a seat, glancing around at the yarn and supplies scattered on the table. “It’s a tradition.”
He watched me for a moment, and I could tell he was picking his words carefully. “So, this is what you do every year on her birthday?”
“Every year.”
He glanced at the nearly finished petals of the peonies. “You make these for her?”
“Yeah,” I admitted, fingers grazing over the delicate, unfinished flowers. “Never sent a single one. Just kept them. Don’t know if I ever planned to give them to her.”
Mikkel looked thoughtful, leaning back in his chair. “And the cake and flowers you send every year… anonymously?”
I nodded. “Always.”
“So, how are you holding up, really?”
“I’m good,” I said, a bit too quickly. Mikkel gave me a look that said he wasn’t buying it, so I sighed. “Alright, maybe not great. But I’ll be okay.”
He took that in, his brow furrowing. “How was seeing her?”
I shook my head. “As good as you’d expect. I don’t think our memories will be enough.”
“But memories don’t fade, do they?” Mikkel pointed out. “Not if they’re tied to someone that deeply.”
I swallowed, glancing down at the deep burgundy and dark purple yarn and the half-done flowers.
We sat there for a moment, the silence settling, until Mikkel broke it gently. “If you ever want someone to join you for this tradition, you know where to find me,” he said, his voice warm. “I mean it, Ronan. You don’t have to go through it all alone.”
I looked over at Mikkel, half-smiling. “You’d sit here and do this with me? Watch me fumble through yarn and stitches all night?”
He shrugged, laughing a little. “I’d keep you company. Crocheting is not my thing,” he admitted, the laugh growing. “But I can be here to make sure you don’t stab yourself with theneedle or end up tying yourself in knots. The medical field needs you.”
I chuckled, shaking my head. “That’s a fair job to take on.”
“Look, Ronan,” he began, voice softened. “I get it. The flowers, the peonies, and the cake every year. This all means something to you. But take it up a notch.”
“Meaning?”
