The hospital's gift shop glowed like a cheerful lie in the corner of the lobby — all bright cards and stuffed bears wearing bandages that said Get Well Soon. Zane stood at the entrance too long, hands buried in his pockets, jaw locked, trying to convince himself that this wasn't a performance.
He didn't buy flowers. Ever.
He didn't know what kind people bought for the women they'd helped lie to.
The clerk was middle-aged, sharp-eyed, wearing the weary politeness of someone who'd been thanked too many times for meaningless purchases. "Can I help you?" she asked, her voice the soft monotone of practiced cheer.
Zane looked over the buckets of color — tulips, lilies, roses, daisies, carnations, daffodils — all bright, fragile things meant to disguise pain. "I'm not sure," he said honestly.
"Get-well flowers?" she prompted.
He hesitated. "Something… not too cheerful."
She blinked. "You mean, like—sorry-for-what-life-did-to-you-but-here's-something-alive?"
"That sounds about right," he said dryly.
Her smile cracked into something real. "You're not the usual kind."
"Lucky me."
She crossed to the display, fingers brushing stems like she was choosing words. "Tulips mean new beginnings," she said. "Fresh starts. Hope without pressure." She pointed to a neat row of pale yellow blooms. "Daffodils, though — they're about rebirth, forgiveness, and quiet strength. Most people don't know that. They grow even after frost."
"Forgiveness," he repeated under his breath, the word catching like grit in his throat.
"Or resilience," she said, sensing his discomfort and softening it. "Depends how you look at it."
He looked at both. One felt presumptuous, the other cowardly. He wanted something that didn't announce itself but wasn't meaningless either.
"How about both?" he said finally. "Tulips and daffodils."
She nodded. "You know, that's a strange mix — one's spring, the other winter."
"Maybe I like contradictions."
She wrapped them carefully in brown paper, her hands deft and unhurried. "Someone special?" she asked, because people always did.
He didn't answer right away. The question made his chest tighten.
"Someone who deserves better than what she got," he said at last.
The florist gave him a knowing look. "Then don't hand them over like an apology. Give them like a promise."
He paid in cash — another habit of control — and left with the flowers in one hand, the brown paper warming under his grip. Outside, the air was crisp, the kind that didn't forgive hesitation. He stood there a moment, feeling foolishly visible, a man holding beauty he didn't deserve to deliver.
He wasn't used to gestures. He was used to logic. Gestures demanded vulnerability, and that had never been his field.
But for the first time in years, he wanted the attempt to matter.
By the time he made it back to the ward, his mind had organized itself into restraint. He told himself the visit was pragmatic — a follow-up, a courtesy. Not penance. Not longing. Just clean lines.
The nurse at the station glanced at the flowers and lifted an eyebrow. "You again?"
"Me again."
"She's awake. Visitors keep her alert." The woman's tone softened. "Just keep it calm."
He nodded, every muscle in his face rehearsing neutrality.
Inside the room, Willow looked up at the sound of the door. The blinds were half-open, slicing the morning into thin gold lines across her bed. Her eyes, tired but sharp, flicked to the flowers, then to his face.
"You again," she said, matching the nurse's words exactly. It made the corner of his mouth twitch.
He set the bouquet on the night stand near her bed, careful not to disturb her water glass. "These are for you."
"I gathered," she said. Her voice was steady, but there was an edge under it — brittle, like glass warmed too quickly. "They're… beautiful."
"They're flowers," he said, because beauty felt like too much intention.
She studied him for a long moment, the faintest narrowing of her eyes. "Miles sent you?"
"No." He caught himself too quickly, and the word hung there, too sharp to retract. "I came myself."
She tilted her head, curious, assessing. "Why?"
He didn't have an answer that sounded harmless.
Because I helped him lie.
Because I wanted to see if you looked as strong as I remember.
Because you keep me awake at night, and I'm tired of pretending it's contempt.
He said none of it. "Because I am your boyfriend," he offered instead. To her he put the noose around his own neck… she expected more sarcasm though. There was none.
Willow looked away first, toward the flowers. Her uninjured hand brushed the paper. "Daffodils," she murmured. "My mother used to love them."
He glanced up sharply. "I didn't know you had—"
"I don't," she said. "Not anymore." A small smile, so faint it barely existed. "But she did."
He nodded, feeling his throat tighten around words that had no use. "I didn't know."
"There's a lot you don't know," she said softly. Then, before the air could harden, she added, "But thank you. They're… nice."
The exchange should have ended there. It would have been cleaner to leave.
But he didn't move.
Instead, he sat in the visitor's chair, the one Miles had occupied days ago, and for a moment the symmetry made his stomach knot. Willow noticed it too; he saw the flicker in her gaze.
"You don't have to stay," she said.
"I know."
"Then why are you?"
He hesitated. "Because I can."
That earned him the faintest quirk of her lips. "You sound like someone trying to convince himself."
"Maybe I am."
Silence stretched between them — not empty this time, but careful. The monitor's rhythm softened into the background. The smell of antiseptic and tulips mingled oddly, clean and human.
She studied him, her expression unreadable. "You've changed."
"Since when?"
"Since the last time you insulted my career at a dinner party."
He let out a dry laugh — short, real. "I deserved that."
"Yes," she said. "You did."
Something like warmth slipped between the sarcasm and the grief. He leaned back slightly, letting it exist. "You should rest," he said, finally.
"Resting is all I've been doing," she murmured, eyes drifting toward the window. "It's the waking that hurts."
He understood that more than he wanted to admit. "Then I'll sit quietly."
And he did.
Minutes passed — or maybe an hour — with nothing but the quiet hum of machines and the muted heartbeat of something unspoken. He didn't touch the flowers again. He didn't speak. He only stayed — the way men do when they realize that silence, if held long enough, can begin to sound like care.
When he finally stood to leave, she didn't thank him again. She just looked at him with something new — not forgiveness, not suspicion — just awareness. The kind that says: I see you, even if I don't believe you yet.
He nodded once, the barest movement, and left before his restraint cracked.
Outside the door, he exhaled slowly.
The scent of tulips and disinfectant clung to his hands.
He told himself it was nothing.
But it wasn't nothing.
It was the beginning — and he knew it.