Esme unlocked the door to Everflora, the bell above it chiming like a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. It smelled faintly of dried lavender, but fainter than usual, like the space had been holding its own breath too.
The shelves were still lined with glass jars, ribbons, and softly drooping blooms. Some of the petals had wilted in her absence. She walked slowly past them, trailing her fingers along the countertop. It had only been a few days, but it felt like she was returning from war.
The quiet was familiar, but not comforting.
She set her bag down behind the counter, smoothed her apron on autopilot, and began sorting a box of deliveries. Stems of pale ranunculus, queen anne's lace, and ivory peonies—her mother's favorite. Her fingers moved deftly, but her mind wandered.
Liam had gone to work that morning. The apartment had felt cavernous without him, despite its modest size. His absence pulled at something in her chest. A dull ache. She had spent the morning in silence, sipping coffee and staring at his bookshelf again.
There had been another novel tucked between two crime thrillers: The Forest of Silver. It wasn't one of her favourites growing up, but it wss still a moderately good book. Seeing it there, in his space, made her pause.
Did he know?
She hadn't asked. Just smiled to herself and tucked the thought away, like a flower pressed into the pages of memory.
The bell above the door chimed again.
She didn't need to look up. She already knew it was him.
Liam stood in the doorway, casual in his dark slacks—she was really curious to see his wardrobe, at this point—and navy button-down, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. His badge wasn't clipped to his belt today, and the absence of it made him look softer somehow. Less detective. More... man.
"You're supposed to be working," she said, not looking at him as she trimmed the stems of tulips.
"I'm on break." He stepped inside and let the door swing shut behind him. "And I wanted tea."
She raised an eyebrow. "You came to a florist for tea?"
"You make the best chamomile in the city."
She didn't smile, but she did gesture toward the back with her clippers. "You can put the kettle on. The mugs are in the top right corner of the cupboard."
He moved like he'd done it a dozen times before. She watched him out of the corner of her eye as he waited for the water to boil, then as he poured hot water into mismatched ceramic mugs and handed her one.
Steam curled between them. The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable. Just tight, strung with something they hadn't named yet.
He leaned against the counter beside her, sipping. "It's good to see you here again."
"It's good to be here."
Liam watched her for a beat, then looked away. "You ever think about learning how to defend yourself? I mean—officially."
She paused. "I already know how to fight."
"I've seen you land a mean elbow," he said. "But I mean real training. Self-defense. Weapons, even."
She looked at him over her mug. "Is this your way of calling me weak?"
"No," he said immediately. "No. It's my way of saying you shouldn't have to be alone in a fight like that."
Her throat went tight, but she masked it with a sip.
"I don't like the idea of you walking home alone," he added. "Even if I'm not far."
"You followed me," she said, quieter.
He didn't deny it. Just looked down at his tea. "I should've stepped in sooner."
"You stepped in when it mattered."
They stood there, silence blooming again. Esme let herself lean against the wall, mug warm in her hands.
"You could come by the training grounds on Saturday," he offered. "Just to see. No pressure."
She considered him. The truth was, she didn't want to play student. Didn't want him to see how much she already knew. But part of her—some stubborn, shivering part—wanted to prove she could.
"Fine," she said. "Saturday."
He smiled, and she hated how good that made her feel.
"I should go," Liam said, glancing at the time. "Didn't mean to hover."
"You don't hover."
He looked back at her, something unreadable in his eyes. "Don't forget. Saturday."
She nodded, following him to the door. He turned just before stepping outside.
"I meant what I said, Esme. You don't have to do everything alone."
Then he was gone.
The bell chimed in his wake.
She stood there for a moment, letting the silence settle again. Then, returning to the counter, she picked up the scissors—and her phone buzzed.
A message. Unknown number.
Dorne is on your trail. Get him before he gets you.
Her blood turned to ice.
The scissors slipped from her hand and clattered onto the tiles. Her breath caught, heart pounding.
Mateo's death hadn't been a warning.
It had been a spark.
Silas Dorne knew.
The attack. The men outside her shop. Her mother's things destroyed. The eyes that watched from shadows.
This wasn't paranoia. It was a strategy. Calculated. Cold.
Esme's hands trembled as she deleted the message and locked the phone. Her mind already spun with flowers. With roots. With slow-killing poisons.
She walked into the back room where the dangerous blooms were kept. Belladonna. Monkshood. Oleander.
Each one whispered a promise.
She stood in the doorway, staring into the darkness.
"I warned you," she whispered.
Then she reached for the gloves.