Chapter 37 The Man Behind Those Flowers
KARA’S POV
It’s been two months since I last saw either of them. No Luheen waiting by the lobby and no Finnian haunting corners of restaurants or hallways. Just absence, clean and relentless. And yet, the flowers keep coming. Monday morning, another bouquet on my desk. Deep red this time with velvety petals, dramatic, unapologetic, and too intentional to be random.
Allyn squints at it.
“Okay, now this is getting creepy.”
I swallow.
“It’s probably just… delayed deliveries.”
But even as I say it, something feels wrong. By Wednesday, there’s another one. White orchids that is rare, expensive, and the kind you don’t buy casually. I stare at my phone longer than I should. And then I dialed Luheen's digits with shaky hands.
It rings twice before Luheen answers, voice rough and low, like I dragged him out of sleep.
“Kara?” There’s genuine surprise there. “Is everything okay?”
“I—” I hesitate, already feeling stupid. “I’m sorry to bother you. I just… I needed to ask you something.”
He shifts, the sound of sheets rustling faintly in the background. “You’re not bothering me. What’s up?”
I take a breath. “The flowersz they’re still coming... I just want to ask you to stop... I don't want your efforts to go in vain."
A pause, a real one this time.
“They are?”
“Yes,” I say slowly. “Every week, sometimes more.”
Another pause, heavier now.
“Kara… I haven’t sent you flowers. Not since I tried courting you."
My grip tightens around the phone. “What?”
“I swear,” he says, voice firm despite the hoarseness. “I never did."
Something cold slides down my spine.
“Oh,” I whisper. “I—I’m sorry. I thought—”
“It’s okay,” he says gently. “I’m glad you called.”
I hear a cough, rough and deep.
“Are you sick?” I ask.
“Just a fever,” he chuckles weakly. “You caught me at a bad time.”
Guilt rushes in. “I’m sorry. I’ll let you rest.”
“Kara,” he says before I can hang up. “Whoever is sending those flowers… be careful.”
I don’t answer and I just ended the call. My hands are shaking when I lower the phone. I turn slowly toward my desk and there it is the bouquet, it's still there. Fresh and dew clinging to the petals like it was cut hours ago. I bend down and pick it up as my fingers brushing against its ribbon. There, tucked neatly beneath the stems, is a small tag I’ve somehow ignored every time.
The shop’s name and its address.
My heart starts pounding and just like that, during my break, I don’t think. I just go.
The flower shop is tucked between a café and a tailor, warm and fragrant, bells chiming softly when I step inside. An older woman stands behind the counter, arranging sunflowers with careful hands.
She looks up and smiles. “Good afternoon.”
I swallow. “Hi. Um… I’ve been receiving flowers from here actually... This is the tag." I showed her the white tag.
Her smile widens knowingly. “Ah.. You must be Karaella.”
My stomach drops. “You know me, ma'am?”
“Of course,” she says, nodding. “He talks about you every time. He's even right when he said that you're so stunning in person.”
My voice barely works after what she said. I could even feel my cheeks burning. “He?”
She reaches beneath the counter and pulls out a thick ledger. “Do you want to know who’s been sending them?”
“Yes,” I whisper. “Please.”
She flips through the pages, finger gliding down familiar dates. Then she turns the book toward me. Then, the name hits me like a physical blow.
Finnian Matthew Stewheinz.
My world tilts.
“I—” My breath stutters. “That’s not possible.”
"He never misses a delivery and is always early. Always chooses the most expensive arrangement we have.” The florist chuckles softly.
My chest tightens painfully. “He… he hasn’t been here.”
“Oh, he orders from overseas now,” she says casually. “Europe, I believe. Still very particular.”
I stare at the name, letters blurring. “Why?”
She tilts her head, studying me with gentle eyes. “Because he looks at flowers the way people look at apologies.”
I don’t remember leaving the shop.
I just know I walk out into the sunlight, clutching answers I never asked for and feelings I never buried properly.
Finnian.
The man I thought had moved on, the man I thought chose someone else, and the man I thought forgot.
He didn’t because he was sending me pieces of himself instead. And as I stand there on the sidewalk, heart racing and hands cold, one question echoes louder than the rest.
If he was always thinking of me…
Then why did he leave without saying goodbye? Or, is this another pitfall that I shouldn't be falling into?
Five months pass like a held breath.
The flowers don’t stop, they come every day, without fail, like a quiet promise that refuses to expire. Mondays for roses and Tuesdays for lilies. Some days, arrangements so elaborate they draw a small crowd by my desk.
“Are you running a funeral home now?” Allyn jokes once, eyeing a massive bouquet of peonies.
I smile, but it doesn’t reach my eyes.
Because by now, I know who they’re from. And knowing doesn’t make it easier, it makes it heavier. I stop trying to guess meanings, I stop checking tags, and I stop asking questions I’m afraid to answer. The flowers become part of the routine, like coffee in the morning or traffic on the way home. Consistent, silent, and loaded.
Until one morning, they don’t arrive.
I wait.
Ten a.m. Nothing.
Noon, still nothing.
By three, my chest feels oddly tight, like I’ve lost something I didn’t realize I was holding onto and I tell myself it’s fine. That this is normal and that maybe this is how it’s supposed to end.
Then my phone buzzes.
Sancha:
Have you heard?
Me:
About what?
Three dots. Then—
Sancha:
Finnian’s back. He arrived from abroad last night.
My heart stumbles.
Back.
I stare at the word until it blurs.
Me:
Are you sure?
Sancha:
Yeah. It’s all over the internal circles. He’s back in the country.
I set my phone down slowly, like sudden movements might shatter something fragile inside me. My pulse is loud in my ears, hopeful in a way I hate myself for.
Back means here.
Here means close.
Close means—
I wait.
Days turn into weeks.
No Finnian.
No accidental sightings, no messages, and no explanations waiting in my inbox. And just as quietly as they once arrived, the flowers stop.
Completely.
No farewell bouquet, no last dramatic arrangement, and just… absence again.
This time, it hurts worse. I tell myself it’s done. Whatever this was, whatever it almost became, it has finally ended. I force myself to believe that the silence is closure.
Then Monday comes. It’s raining, the kind that soaks through clothes and bones alike. I stop by a small coffee shop near my office, needing caffeine and warmth more than anything else. The garage is at the back, which means I’m already damp by the time I step inside.
By the time I leave, it’s almost eleven.
The rain hasn’t let up. I pull my coat tighter around myself, keys clutched in my hand, and shoes splashing through shallow puddles as I head toward my car.
Then I see him.
Standing a few meters away, half-hidden by the dim streetlight, rain dripping from his hair, and shoulders squared like he’s been standing there longer than he should have.
"Finnian."
My breath leaves me all at once.
For a second, I think I’m hallucinating. That grief and longing have finally teamed up to make me see things. Then his eyes meet mine and his face softens. The sharp edges melt away, replaced by something raw and undone, like he’s been holding himself together with sheer will alone.
“Kara,” he breathes.
I don’t answer, I can’t.
He closes the distance in three long strides and then his arms are around me.
Tight, desperate,and real.
I freeze as he pulls me into his chest, burying his face against my shoulder like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go. Something falls between us, hitting the wet pavement with a soft thud.
These are flowers. A bouquet, already soaked and petals bruised by rain.
He doesn’t say a word and he just holds me. The rain soaks us both, my hair plastered to my face, his coat heavy with water, but neither of us moves. My hands hover uselessly at my sides before curling slowly into the fabric of his jacket.
“Finnian…” My voice cracks. “What are you doing?”
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs finally, voice rough against my ear. “I’m so sorry.”
My eyes burn. Tears mix with rain and I don’t bother wiping them away.
“You left,” I whisper. “You didn’t say goodbye, instead you dated another woman and here you are, hugging me under the pouring rain like you didn't break me for the nth time.
“I know,” he says, his grip tightens. “I didn’t trust myself to leave you properly. Or to stay, or to handle you with care because I didn't even know how to handle mine.”
I pull back just enough to look at him, water dripping from his lashes and jaw clenched like he’s bracing for impact.
“Were the flowers…” I swallow. “Was that you?”
He nods once. “Every single one.”
“Why?” My chest aches with the question.
“Because I didn’t know how to say what I owed you,” he says quietly. “And because staying away was the only way I knew how not to ruin you... I always wanted to court you, but I don't know how to say it or ask you... I just learned that giving flowers is the common way to ask a woman to be courted.”
I laugh, broken and breathless. “You did a terrible job.”
A ghost of a smile flickers on his lips. “I know.”
The rain keeps falling and the world keeps spinning. And there I am, standing in his arms again, knowing exactly how dangerous this is and how easily I could be hurt.
Yet still—
Still, my heart leans toward him.
Because maybe I’m willing to fall again.
Or maybe I already have... again.