The lack of coffee scent wafting through the room and the cold bedsheets next to me tell me everything I need to know.

Silas is gone.

Panic doesn’t set in. After last night, he won’t ghost on me. Duty must be calling. Silas has a job, a niece, a mom to deal with, after all. I get more of his time than anyone else in the world. Sharing him with his responsibilities is part of life.

I don’t have to like it, though.

Duff, I suspect, is out in the living room, working from his phone like all of the security guys. I take a moment to regroup. Yes, it means a delay in getting caffeine in my bloodstream, but as I stretch out on the bed, my fingertips grazing the headboard as my toes splay and my body stretches like a Michelangelo schematic, I relax into the mattress and think.

The sheets smell like Silas.

Inhaling, I let my monkey-mind jump and hoot for a few seconds, settling down until I can organize it.

I’m cleared in Tara’s death. Official cause: suicide. Real cause: homicide. Actual murderer: still out there.

I’m Senator Harwell Bosworth’s daughter. Official line: I’m not. Truth: I am, and Monica hates me while Harry tries to control me without giving me information I’m entitled to have.

I’m re-establishing a friendship with Lindsay as she trusts me more and more.

I’m sleeping with Silas.

I have my own apartment, even if my bed is a camping cot. It’s mine.

Lots of pieces of my life are starting to re-assemble, like a quilt that’s falling apart but being put back together, stitch by stitch, seam by seam.

But Drew still doesn’t trust me.

“Sounds like a well-rounded life,” I mutter to myself as I pull up to a sitting position in bed and sigh. My skin feels so empty without Silas touching it. I press my palm flat against the part of the bed where he slept, seeking out any remnants of his body heat. I’m probably imagining it, but I swear it’s there. He’s so solid, so strong, so real.

And tonight... what about tonight? How much longer will I have him?

Slipping into his sweats, I walk into the kitchen to find a full pot of coffee with a Post-it note on it. Very messy, hasty handwriting says:

See you tonight. S.

That’s one question in my life answered.

I grin as I pour myself a cup of coffee and call out, “Morning, Duff.”

“Morning,” replies a deep male voice. “Sleep well?” I perk my ears to catch any hint of innuendo about me and Silas, but his voice is maddeningly neutral.

“I did. And you?”

“Like a baby. Which means I wake up every twenty minutes and fuss.”

I’ve heard the joke before. In fact, my mom used to make it all the time when she was alive. But like I did with her, I laugh to be polite.

“Coffee?” I ask him, holding up the pot and peering into the living room.

He shakes his head and returns his attention to his phone. “I’m fine.”

“I didn’t ask how you were. I asked if you wanted coffee.”

“I don’t drink–” He waves his hand dismissively. “–that.”

I look at the pot in my hand with arched eyebrows. “What am I drinking? I thought it was coffee!”

“It is. I just don’t drink it.”

“What do you drink?”

“Espresso.”

“Oh. I see. Duff the Coffee Snob.”

“Something like that.”

“I thought cops drank awful coffee as part of the job.”

“I’m not a cop.”

This conversation is going nowhere. Even though I’m in a fabulous mood, I can tell that if I keep talking to Duff, it’ll take the shine off my sense of well being. I cut my losses and go back to the kitchen, searching Silas’s fridge for milk.

Coffee in order, I take a seat at the dining table and scan my phone for texts. Ignoring nasty emails is hard. I set up a filter in my email account so that any email containing certain insults, including four-letter words like slut and another one that begins with c, go straight to spam.

That doesn’t mean plenty of other nastygrams don’t make it through, though.

Spam. Spam spam spam. You’d be surprised how much energy people who don’t even know me will pour into diatribes designed to shame me. Or drive me to madness. To make me hurt myself.

The emails don’t work.

But they do create work. I have to filter it all out so I can get to my actual life. The tiny little preview on each email tends to include only the intro to the rants. I’m the whore of Babylon. I need to have a dick shoved down my throat until I asphyxiate. I should be covered in honey and left to rot on an aircraft carrier.

And then there are the biblical ones, all signed by pastors. Or at least, people pretending to be men of the cloth. On the internet, because of anonymity cloaks, you can be anyone.

Some people spend their spare time pretending to be religiously ordained so they can morally excoriate me in the interest of lifting themselves above me.

The hours they spend creating these long rants are intriguing. Not the people behind the rants–the hours themselves. Imagine if we could collectively harness all those hours and minutes and put them in a holding tank, to be doled out for good? What if each minute of rage-filled cathartic writing was instead spent teaching people in a developing nation how to install a well for clean water? Too bad the world doesn’t work that way. We should be able to re-purpose time itself.

We can recycle physical goods. We can reorient and change our physical direction. We can change our minds. Why can’t we change time?

Silly thoughts, I know, but it’s a psychological defense when you get enough troll mail like this. A thick skin is useful, but I need to create some kind of mental defense for the hardiest of shitlords. The sheer volume of hate mail and messages and memes I get means I have to think about alternatives, because if humanity is really this sick, then I give up.

And I won’t let them make me give up.

“Whatever you’re reading, it’s bad for your face,” Duff says from across the room, standing and slipping his phone into his jacket pocket, revealing the small holster belt that holds his gun. “That frown is going to freeze in place and then you’ll look like most of my clients.”

I give him a wry smile, a reflection of my inner state. “What I’m reading is bad for humanity.”

I had no idea you could do so much with Photoshop.

My trolls show me alllll the new features. That picture in the news of me covered in Tara’s blood is pure gold from a media perspective. I’m sure I’m getting more clicks than a cheap ballpoint pen in the hands of a nervous sixteen-year-old taking a written driver’s test at the DMV.

“Hate mail again?”

“Again? It’s never stopped. Just more of it.”

“Why read it?”

“I have legitimate email to read, mixed in there.”

“You don’t have someone from The Grove scrubbing it?”

“If they are, they’re doing a lousy job. Besides, I like to know my enemies and their tactics. It’ll take more than bodyguards for me to stay safe.”

His eyebrow twitches, the only sign of emotion. “Don’t go rogue.”

“Rogue?”

“You have the best team in charge of your security, Jane.” He’s so serious. “They know exactly what they’re doing. No one else could have kept you alive this long.”

I don’t know what to say. How do you comment on that?

“You really think someone would have killed me?”

“Was the car bomb a fake? Were the bullets that gunman was shooting at The Grove fake? Was Tara’s blood fake?”

“No.”

“There’s your answer. If you don’t understand that without Drew, Silas, and your fath...er, the team, that you’d be dead by now, you haven’t been paying attention.”

Self-righteous anger plumes through me, like someone injected a bolus straight to the heart. “I do nothing but pay attention, Duff.” I storm out of the room and slam the bathroom door, effectively trapping myself. Silas’s bathrobe is hanging on the back of the door. I reach for it as if he’s inside it, my face buried in the light flannel. It smells like him, a heady mix of soap and skin, reminding me of sex last night. In an instant, I’m warm and wet in all the wrong places, needing his body, his mouth, his hands.

Him.

I strip down to nothing and turn on the shower, determined to get out of this apartment and breathe in fresh air. A friendly face is what I need. The act of going out in public without fear feels revolutionary. Rebellious.

Free.

My quick shower is perfunctory, just thorough enough to make me feel human. As I dry off, I shove my body back into the same sweats I wore last night and move into the bedroom, where a neatly folded set of clothes is waiting for me, as if it patiently knew I’d discover it.

There really is a point where being micromanaged feels like prison.

But this moment isn’t it.

I dress, surprised by how the clothing I didn’t choose fits me like a glove. A sleek purple sweater, lightweight yet warm, with a V-neck that is modest yet flattering. Pale grey slacks made with some stretchy material that covers my curves like it was tailored for me. My bra–the one I wore here–is folded in the collection. It slowly dawns on me that Silas did this.

Silas picked these clothes for me.

Only a man who had touched my body, admired me from afar and up close, could choose such an outfit. Only a man who paid exquisite attention to my coloring, my shape, my features, my body’s architecture, could dress me like this. A thrill of anticipation shoots through me like a live wire.

Imagining my own hands are his, I hug my hips with my palms, riding up from the swell of my ass to the curl of ribs under my breasts. He’s white lightning in my mind, the transmission of imagination into skin possible only because he is the center of my fantasy. Tonight, he comes back to me. I know this in my core, his presence now a solid fact in a world of conjecture.

Tonight he comes back to me.

And tonight I give him more pieces of my soul to keep.

This lifeline of Silas tugs at my heartstrings, gratitude allowing the tears to come. Mourning all I’ve lost is a luxury, but it’s one Silas gives me now. The space to grieve is hard fought. He fights for me, though. For me.

Not against me.

Not anymore.

My vision is blurred through tears, and as I reach for the dresser to quell my shaking nerves, a small note brushes against my fingertips, fluttering to the ground. I bend to retrieve it and find the same horrible scrawl of Silas’s hand.

For you, it says simply. Wear this tonight.

My hand goes back to my hip and I feel a small bump along the point where hipbone curls into the delicious start of flesh Silas kissed last night. Fumbling in the small pocket, I find a surprise.

A necklace.

“You bastard,” I whisper, laughing until I can’t tell the difference between my tears and my grief. The necklace is beautiful, a purple gemstone surrounded by spun platinum, the braided metal custom designed.

Encircling the stone is a series of small holes. The pattern is intricate, designed to look like Celtic knots, gorgeous in the simplicity of geometry.

Behind the gemstone is a very small, solid silver piece.

Which holds a battery.

Silas’s beautiful gift is also a horrid reminder of reality. The twin revelations of his romantic gesture and his pragmatic protectiveness fight inside me, outrage and love in a sweaty, twisted battle for dominance.

Everything I experience will be monitored.

And every step I make will involve constant protection.

By him.

Slipping the delicate chain around my neck, I accept this. I accept the collaring of a man who won’t compromise when it comes to my safety. I accept the haunting beauty of his multi-layered gift.

I accept the team of guards who will be fierce and careful in Silas’s absence. Duff is still wrong, but my anger toward him dissipates as I stare down at the purple stone that rests just above the swell of my breasts.

I surrender to Silas, and only him.

This is how he loves. With beauty and pragmatism. He cannot do one without the other.

Which will be his downfall?

A curious madness makes me rush through getting ready, the need to get out of here such a strong impulse, out of the blue. Living in my own head, even for a short time this morning, is too much. A few minutes later, I walk into the living room, pockets filled with my phone and a small wallet. I leave without saying a word to Duff.

Who simply follows.

Walking into the hallway and stomping down all the stairs, I burst into the sunshine with a heart that feels like a thousand butterflies all folded together. The second I breathe air from the wind that says hello with a light caress of sunshine, I smile.

And I walk.

Wherever I want to go, I go.

My legs stretch with ever-lengthening strides as I gain confidence, remembering a former self who used to have the freedom to take such a simple walk for granted. Four blocks used to be an annoyance.

Now it’s heaven.

Duff doesn’t argue with me like he did the other day. Even if he tried, it wouldn’t work. Sheer force is what he would need to exert to stop me, and Silas wouldn’t tolerate that. Fighting me now is more dangerous than ever before. I’m not the same Jane I was yesterday.

I’ll never be the same.

And not because I’m Harwell Bosworth’s daughter.

Turning the corner, I see The Thorn Poke, an Open sign on the propped door. A light wind pushes the scent from inside out to me, beguiling and welcoming.

Come in, the scent says. We’re here, it beckons.

Let’s be friends.

Because the door is open, no bell tinkles when I enter. It’s just me. Duff stands sentry outside, leaning casually against the store’s brick wall, his shoulder touching, legs crossed at the ankle as he looks at his phone. He’s the picture of a business man in pause.

In reality, he’s a trained beast, ready to leap.

“Hi!” chirps a young woman, the exuberance catching me off guard, making me jump a little.

“Oh, did I scare you?” Her hands fly to her mouth in embarrassment, eyes wide, forehead creased with worry. “I am so, so sorry!” She’s behind the counter and curls her hip just so as she steps around, the motion so practiced, she probably doesn’t realize she does it.

“It’s okay,” I say, laughing. “You wouldn’t be the first.”

“That kind of day, huh?”

“That kind of year,” I blurt out before I can stop myself.

Her creased brow deepens. “Did... um...” Her entire demeanor shifts, as if she’s correcting herself. “Are you here for a memorial or a funeral arrangement?”

“What? Oh. No.” I smile at her, trying to remember how to be normal with strangers again. It’s liberating and awkward. “I’m just... I’m just being silly. I’m here because I want to buy something cheerful.”

“Then you’ve come to the right place!” Her eyes are familiar, hair the same color as mine is now, the cut really similar. She’s giving me the same careful evaluation I’m giving her. It’s unnerving.

“I’m Lily,” she says, stretching out her hand to shake mine. When we touch, I realize what it is. But she says it first.

“We could be twins,” she says matter-of-factly, now openly looking me up and down. “You’re an inch or two taller than me, and your hair is shorter and more layered, but wow! Your eyes, your build. It’s the same. Are we long lost cousins or something? I... I think we’ve met our doppelgängers.”

I can’t process that yet. I’m too stuck on her name. “Lily? Your real name is Lily and you work in a flower shop?”

“My parents own the place.” She shrugs.

“Did they name all their kids after flowers?”

“Yep. My brother, Chrysanthemum, goes by Chris. And my sister is Nasturtium. Her nickname is Nasty.”

“You’re joking.”

She starts to laugh, the giggle infectious. “Yes. I am. My siblings are actually Gwen and Bowen.”

I laugh with her, slightly embarrassed. “I’ll bet people ask you that all the time. Sorry.”

“I don’t mind.” Her shrug is friendly. “It’s social glue.”

“Excuse me?”

“It gives people something to talk about. Flowers are about feeling good. Or, if not good, feeling better. About social glue and connection. You don’t send flowers to people you hate. You send them to express emotion. Complete strangers come in here and when they learn my name is Lily, it gives them something to ask. A common topic.”

“You’re saying that even if someone comes here to send flowers to a funeral, they can talk about your name?”

“Happens all the time.”

“Well, Lily, it worked.” I grin at her. “I’m Jane.”

“I know who you are.”

Oh, no.

“And I think it’s just awful what the media have done to you.”

Oh, wow.

“You–you do?”

“No one could be as evil and conniving as they say you are. No one. Especially someone my age. I’m twenty-three. You’re, like, close, right? I know women my age. No way, even if I were a political insider, could I do all the crimes they say you’ve done. You’re being set up.”

“How do you know this?”

“Because my tinfoil hat tells me so.”

“Is it right most of the time?”

“So far, one hundred percent right.”

“Thank you.” I soften. “You don’t have to say that about me.”

“I wouldn’t say it if it weren’t true! I only lie to people’s faces when they make atrocious flower choices but I can tell they’re dead set on them.”

“What’s an atrocious flower choice?”

“The wrong combo. You know. Like fonts.”

“Fonts?”

“Font styles can be beautiful on their own, but combine the wrong two and you get nothing but visual garbage.”

Through the window in the flower shop door, I see Duff lift his hand to his ear piece. Uh oh. Never a good sign.

“Besides, everyone tells me I look like you. Do you know how hard it’s been to be teased like that for the last year?” she says seriously.

“I can imagine,” I say, but the words come out like I’ve been breathing helium.

Her face drains of color, the paleness so strange on her friendly face. “Oh, geez. I’m such an idiot. I didn’t mean it like that. Compared to what you’re living through, my experience is nothing! I’m sorry.”

“No need to apologize.”

“Is that what you mean about a rough year?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re here to...”

“Feel better.”

“That I can help you with, Jane! Flowers can’t cure any problem, but they can make it a little easier to deal with.” Her grin is infectious.

For the next five minutes, she takes me on a tour of the store, cheerfully explaining the pros and cons of plants and flowers, teasing out my likes and dislikes. She’s so attentive and full of empathy–over flowers.

Flowers.

Little covert glances between us make it clear we’re checking each other out, the resemblance too close to be anything but disorienting. I’m definitely the very definition of the term “plain Jane,” with boring brown hair (now auburn) and hazel eyes. I blend into crowds. While that is an asset now, when I was younger it made me the extra in any crowd, the dull brown rock in a sea of crystals and gemstones.

But seeing someone else who looks so much like me gives me pause.

Because Lily is beautiful.

“I notice you keep looking at the allium.” Her eyes dance along the edge of my sweater, taking in the purple. “Are you trying to match your clothes?”

I laugh. “No. I just like purple.”

She points to my necklace. “I can see that.”

And Silas can see you, I almost say. I cover the stone with my hand, suddenly split into two consciousnesses. One is having a lovely time talking about flowers with Lily.

The other feels like a cheap spy.

“That’s a lovely stone. It matches the sweater. Was it a present?” She winks. “Boyfriend?” Her eyes take in my bare hand. No rings.

I can’t answer that. I freeze. I can’t answer her question because I’m suddenly filled with nothing but the stark reality of Silas.

I can’t stop thinking about him. As clichéd as that sounds, it is true, yet so much more. I can’t breathe without inhaling him. I can’t see the world through any other lens than him. He is the air, the stars, the tickle of wind against my cheeks, the damp flush of misty rain that brushes my neck.

I am in a kind of sexual madness. Silas throbs between my legs. His pulse is mine, his sweat-soaked heat warming my skin even when he is gone. I live in a world no one else inhabits but him, and he knows it. Feels it.

There is no way not to know, because when the world pinpoints into a tiny space with only one other being, you know all there is to know about them.

Thank God.

My body yearns for him seconds after we stop touching. Attuned to his scent, his touch, his carriage and movement, I wait in the space between our touches, pause in suspended animation, a shell that operates under the most basic of commands.

I speak with people. I buy food and eat it. Drinking coffee is a rote behavior.

Unless we are connected, I am less.

When we are connected, we are everything.

Obsession like this isn’t healthy. I know that. The problem with obsession is that it feeds itself, desperate to stay alive. The wanting isn’t rational. It is all-consuming and designed to be so. Highs that come from just looking at Silas, the glance triggering memories of his mouth against my breast, his fingers skimming the swell of my thigh, the boneless relief of orgasms elicited–those highs come from obsession.

If obsession is irrational, then I reject all reason.

Pleasure that comes from obsession is too great to reject wholesale, too divine to dismiss as insanity.

“Uh, Jane?” Lily’s hand on my shoulder breaks me out of the exotic spell Silas has me in. “You okay?”

“What? Yes. Fine.”

“You’re flushed. Are you feeling faint?”

My pulse throbs between my legs. The touch of my bra fabric against my nipples is torture. Shivers take over every inch of my skin like a tsunami storming the shore, pushing up into my veins, sending wild memories of sex and Silas’s scent through every nerve ending I possess.

He possesses me, even when I’m not in his orbit.

Footsteps, loud and swift, and a shadow covers the right side of me. A hand touches my elbow.

“Jane?” Duff’s rough voice shakes me back to a semblance of normalcy. He glares at Lily. “What happened?”

She glares back. “She got a little woozy. Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” I ask, confused, struggling to pull myself together while ignoring the untamed impulses setting my body into overdrive.

“Like I would ever hurt you.”

Duff is a sentry, an emotionless protector who won’t be affected by her.

“Please tell me he’s not your boyfriend,” she pleads in a voice so unlike her friendly demeanor.

“No. He’s not.”

“Whew.”

Duff gives her a cranky smirk, looking more like an eighteenth-century pirate than a twenty-first-century agent. “Why, sweetheart? Relieved I’m single?”

“You wish.”

“I’m fine.” I don’t want him here, interfering with my bubble. Before I can find the right words to make him leave, he just does. Magically, he slips back out to the small area on the sidewalk, this time sitting on a small bench surrounded by geraniums.

“Who is that? Your bodyguard?” she jokes.

“Yes.”

All laughter disappears from her face. “Whoa. Really?” Compassion fills her features. For a brief flash, she looks like a younger version of my mother. “I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine what your life is like.”

“Trade you,” I say with a laugh.

She remains serious. “We could. You look enough like me.”

“If this were a Hallmark Channel movie, we’d do it, wouldn’t we?” I smile at her.

Glancing at Duff through the big picture window, she gives me an uncertain look. “I’m pretty sure your life is more like a Lifetime ‘woman in peril’ movie. You know. The kind where the guy she trusts most in the world turns out to be her biggest danger.”

If Lily had kicked me in the stomach she couldn’t have hurt me more.

Shame fills me. It’s an instant horror that takes over the body. I have no control over it. My mind can’t rationalize it away. Hormones and chemicals released by cells inside me with no external directive flood all of my receptors. My skin crawls. My eyes flitter and jerk, darting left and right as I try to take in visual input and put it neatly in a category where it belongs, store it in short-term memory so I can take in the next piece of sensory input.

Overloaded circuits shut down.

But humans aren’t circuit boards.

Instead, we take it and take it, the pile-on of overload reaching critical mass until we go mad.

Madness is a form of self-preservation.

Madness makes systems protect themselves.

Madness is the most elegant of all entropies.

And madness is the end game for people who overload others.

I’m not mad. Insanity would be a welcome break from it all, but that is not my fate.

“Let’s get you a nice table display. How about purple, yellow, and white?” Lily’s trying to do what I do. Establish normalcy. Unlike so many others, she’s not doing it from a position of panic or denial. She’s not being fake to cover the horror of who I am and my reality.

She’s being kind.

And in my world, that is almost transgressive.

“Irises? Lilies?” she asks, making fun of her own name.

“You’re the expert,” I tell her with a shaky smile. “Why don’t you pick?”

Her eyes light up. “Really? Because customers never say that. They always want me to put together terrible combinations.”

“I don’t want to be just any customer. Go for it.”

For the next ten minutes she hums and putters, checking in for short questions and zipping off, her constant energy a happy sight. It’s like watching a hummingbird drink nectar. Lily lightens my world for these few minutes and I’m grateful.

I’ll also be back. Money can’t buy happiness but it can buy flowers. It can buy time with Lily and her indefatigable charm.

Whirlwind Flower Chick appears suddenly with a breathtaking explosion of color squeezed into an enormous vase in the shape of –

“Is that a unicorn?” I ask, agog.

“YES!” She looks like Buddy the Elf meeting Santa at the mall. “Isn’t it just so perfect?”

“For a five-year-old,” I say slowly, imagining little Kelly’s face if I come home with this.

“We all have inner five-year-olds. Color is young. Color is happiness. Unicorns are sparkly happiness, so even better!”

Leave it to me to find the only flower shop in the entire world with Lisa Frank working in it.

“Lily, that’s a bit–”

“GORGEOUS!”

“–much.”

“No,” she says firmly, as if she’s my best friend and I need to be put in my place. “No, Jane, it is not a bit much. It is muchly much. It is outrageous and bold and over the top and it sings color. That is why you are taking it home with you. And I won’t take your money, so you can’t say no.”

“Huh?”

“It’s a gift.”

I eye the supernova of flowers with great skepticism. A smile pulls at the corners of my mouth in spite of myself. It is definitely muchly much. You cannot look at a unicorn stuffed with golden sunflowers and daisies and big, purple spider mums and not grin.

“No!” I protest. “Of course I’m paying for it.”

“Your money doesn’t work here,” Lily says, her voice officious and endearing. “I mean it. Spend a day with that happy blossom party in a unicorn and I guarantee you’ll be back for more.”

“You just referred to a bunch of flowers as ‘a happy blossom party.’”

“What else is a bunch of properly balanced flowers in a unicorn vase?”

Good point.

“Lily, this is a business–”

“I’m giving it to you as a freebie. A taste. Besides, if you pay for it, you’ll ask me to change it, and I don’t want to mess with perfection.”

I look at the arrangement again.

“It’s like someone took a glitter bomb, portions of a Harold and Kumar movie, and added an FTD commercial,” I tell her.

“NAILED IT!” she cheers, clapping.

Giggles bubble up inside me and spill out. The sound is familiar and old at the same time. “It really is, ah... stunning.”

“If it makes you laugh, it did its job.”

“Oh, it’s making me laugh.”

“Then good. You got what you need.”

What you need.

Silas is what I need, but in his absence, this will do.

She puts the monstrosity in a large bag with a solid bottom, carefully, craftily fitting it in. The stirring scent of flowers feels like I’m truly breathing for the first time. All the air in my lungs is so fresh, so fevered. Each deep breath brings me back into my own skin.

Lily grabs me for a klutzy hug and looks me in the eye. Her face is a beaming ray of light. An old movie from the 1990s, one of my mom’s favorites, floats into my memory. Sliding Doors.

I am staring at the person I could have been in an alternate universe.

“I know once you’re home with your very own unicorn arrangement, you’re going to be so happy. Goofy fun is underrated, Jane. Be silly. If you can’t be a little fun with flowers, when can you be?”

Duff raises one eyebrow and looks at her through the window like she just suggested we perform a seance for a dead pet.

“Thanks,” I reply, starting to wonder how a person could be so optimistic, quirky, and unflaggingly happy all the time. I guess if such a person exists–and Lily certainly does–she should work in a flower shop.

Or on the set of a Judd Apatow film.

As I start to walk back to the apartment building, the weight of the flower arrangement becomes increasingly difficult to manage. Duff is a few feet behind me, and before I can stop to adjust my grip on the bag, he swoops in, taking the handles with a masculine grace that doesn’t match his exterior.

A whiff of cologne tickles my nose, the scent unlike any I typically enjoy. Every part of him is inscrutable, closed off and barricaded. He’s a cipher.

I get the sense that’s intentional.

Back at my apartment, Duff leaves the large bag on the floor. I look at my dining table. Mine.

Smiling as I extract the flower arrangement from the bag, I give it a place of honor. Later, I will cook dinner for Silas. We’ll eat and catch up on the day, laughing and sharing secrets, and then he will take me to bed and peel back another layer of my armor, showing me more of myself.

That’s my assumption.

Within hours, I’ll be proven very, very wrong.