Chapter 142: Language of flowers
The house was quiet when I opened my eyes, the sort of quiet that clings to slow mornings and softens the world, makes it slightly safer. There had been rain sometime in the darkness before the dawn, and the world outside the windows was shiny in the grays—leaves glued sticky with dew, the air with the smell of wet earth and something sweet. Spring, maybe.
I crept into the kitchen bare feet, silk robe clinging to my skin, dripping wet hair curled from taking a shower. I was only hoping for coffee and perhaps some toast if I was feeling adventurous. But as I turned the corner, I stalled.
There they were.
A sprinkling of flowers rested on the counter, jammed into one of the old-fashioned drinking glasses I'd teased Caspian for holding onto. The edge of the glass was slightly worn, but the flowers were vibrant—wild, untrimmed, beautiful in their randomness. Purples and pinks intermingled with deep yellow and white, their stems speckled and water-stained. Some leaned against the glass as if they were too tired to stand. They had been selected apparently at random, as if someone had walked across a field and just picked up whatever they happened to feel drawn to.
A wad of paper against the bottom.
For no reason. For absolutely no reason whatsoever.
Just because.
– C
My heart flipped in my chest.
He never did this kind of thing—not because he didn't care, but because Caspian's affection simmered in the background. In the way he shielded me with protection without ever glancing upwards. In the way he cleared every room we entered, not for him, but for me. In the way his hands always sought out mine beneath tables, or stroked my lower spine at crowded places like a silent prerogative. His love was unshakable and constant, but not vocal.
So this? This was unexpected. A softness I wasn't expecting.
I inched a bit closer and ran my fingers down the petals, touching the edge of a deep purple one. One fell and landed near the note. I stared at it for a moment, something soft catching in my throat.
"You did find them," he said, standing in the doorway.
I spun around, surprised—but not entirely. Caspian stood in the door, arms crossed over his chest as if he'd been waiting for me to do something. He was in soft grey sweatpants and a black t-shirt that hugged him slightly. His hair was tousled from sleep, one hand resting in his pocket loosely, the other holding a mug of coffee. His eyes caught mine immediately.
How long was it that you were there?" I asked, my grin struggling to break through.
Long enough to know I made the right decision."
I raised an eyebrow. "Sneaking around picking flowers like a lovesick teenager?"
He inched towards me, taking slow, deliberating steps, the way he always did when we were alone together—like there wasn't space between us. "They made me think of you.".
I looked down at the bouquet, hues slightly dull where something light and joyful pushed its way into my chest. "Because they're messy?"
"Because they're wild," he answered, pulling up to the stoplight in front of me. His tone dropped to low and gentle, as if he didn't need loud to make the words carry weight. "Unapologetic. Perfect without trying."
I swallowed hard, my fingers still resting on the rim of the glass. “You’re getting dangerously good at this.”
“At what?”
“At knowing exactly how to undo me.”
He reached out and tucked a damp strand of hair behind my ear, his knuckles grazing my cheek in the process. “That’s not new, Lily. I’ve always known.”
My breath caught.
The thing about Caspian was that he never played. He did not flirt. He said things as if he meant them, like these were things which could not be unsaid. There was no way to back out, and for some reason or another, I did not want to.
"I pressed one of the petals in my journal," I said softly. "It felt like something I wanted to hold."
That made him even softer--his eyes, his lips. He looked at me as if he were re-experiencing the moment, then leaned in and kissed me softly, his lips skimming over mine once, then again, this time more slowly.
When he pulled away, we were both still hanging over one another. His breath on my cheek, warm. "Every second with you is one I want to hold onto."
I grinned, heart pounding against my ribs. "When ever did you ever have time to gather flowers?"
"This morning. I went for a walk. Spotted a field in the back of the house at the bottom of the lot."
"You walked through wet grass just to go looking for flowers?"
"I did," he said levelly. "And I'll do it again if it makes you smile like that."
I rested back against his chest, his heart beating slow and steady against me beneath his shirt. He smelled of rain and coffee and himself. Safe. Familiar.
His arms wrapped around me, one on my lower back, flat against me, the other hand up in my hair.
"I don't know how you do it," I whispered.
"Do what?"
"Make something so small feel like everything."
He kissed the crown of my head. "Because it is everything. These mornings. You. Us."
We lingered for a moment, the flowers sipping quietly in the shattered glass behind me, ignored for his hands tracing lazy designs down my back. His touch always had been this way—slow, as if in wonder. As if he reminded himself again and again that I was there.
Then he moved back far enough to raise my chin and kiss me again—this time slower and deeper. It wasn't an impressive kiss or a seduction kiss. It was one of the bonding ones, the kind that wrapped around my ribcage and nestled somewhere in the area of the hollowness of my chest.
As he broke the kiss, he didn't pull away far. His forehead brushed against mine. "You're everything I never knew I could have."
"I'm yours," I panted.
His hand on my waist gripped me by a fraction. "Always."
Later, over breakfast and stolen kisses, after he'd gone out to take a call and I was again left alone with my journal, I returned to the crushed petal from earlier and added a second one beside it. I ironed it flat with careful delicacy, the pages overlapping the fragility like a confidence.
Not to remember the flowers—but to remember the morning. The weightless kind of love that had bloomed in small, everyday moments.
Some people needed diamonds, proclamations, spectacle.
But me?
I had wildflowers.
And a man who loved me for nothing.