Page 25 of Where the Roses Bloom
I didn’t know how to answer that. I didn’t know how to explain the way the rose bush bloomed or the laughter that hadn’t sounded cruel, just…lonely. I didn’t know how to name the strange comfort I’d felt stepping into this kitchen at two in the morning to find him barefoot and half-dressed, looking like a story I’d dreamed too many times to believe in anymore.
“Want some coffee?” he asked, already reaching for a second mug.
“It’s the middle of the night,” I protested, smiling despite myself.
He shrugged one broad, golden shoulder. “We’re both up. Might as well keep each other company.”
I stepped forward without answering, feet silent on the worn tile. He poured carefully, like he always did—no spills, no rush. And when I reached for the sugar, he turned toward the same cabinet at the same time, body brushing mine.
We froze.
I had the sugar bowl in my hand. He reached for it anyway.
Our fingers grazed. The bowl slipped.
Porcelain shattered against tile, scattering white shards and a rain of sugar across the floor.
“Shit,” I breathed.
“Sorry,” he said at the same time, crouching down as I dropped to my knees.
We bumped heads.
Laughed—startled, breathless.
“Of course,” I said. “Ofcoursewe’d break the one thing with roses on it.”
His brow furrowed. “What?”
I looked at the fragments. The painted pink blooms. “Same ones as the window.”
He stared at me for a second. Then back at the porcelain.
And slowly, his smile faded.
Something in the air changed—tilted, turned.
Our knees brushed.
And then, without a word, he leaned in.
And I didn’t stop him.
Our mouths met, sweet and sure. Rain on the roof. Sugar on the air. The broken bowl forgotten between us as we kissed in the kitchen, surrounded by roses and something more than ghosts.
It wasn’t a hesitant kiss.
It didn’t test the waters, didn’t ask for permission in half-measures. It justwas—full and hungry and slow, like he already knew what I tasted like and wanted to savor it again.
His hand came up to cradle the back of my head, fingers sliding into my hair, anchoring me as he tilted his mouth over mine and deepened the kiss with a groan that vibrated down my spine. I felt it all the way to my toes.
The sugar crunched faintly beneath our knees, but the porcelain didn’t cut me.
I wasn’t sure if I’d’ve cared anyway.
He kissed me like the storm might end any second, like I was something worth memorizing. Like maybe this house hadn’t kept company in a long time—but now it was wide awake and watching us fall.
I reached for him, hands skimming his bare chest, feeling the heat of him under my palms. He shivered when I touched him—shivered—and kissed me harder, pulling me closer until the cardigan slipped from my shoulders and I was nothing but soft cotton and want.
