Chloe
I wake up to the soft murmur of voices coming from outside the guest bedroom. My ears ring slightly, but the sound fades as I push myself out of bed. I’m still half-dreaming, but curiosity gets the better of me, and I follow the noise toward the living room.
As I step into the hallway, the voices become clearer—Ivy is at the front door, talking to someone in a hushed tone.
I move closer, my steps light on the floor, and peek around the corner to see her closing the door on a man in a uniform. In her arms, she’s holding a massive bouquet of roses.
The blooms are striking—long-stemmed, with a blend of bright yellow and gold petals alongside deep, dark black ones. The contrast is dramatic and beautiful. There are so many flowers that they’re practically spilling out of Ivy’s arms. She struggles to hold all of them.
Ivy shifts them slightly, trying to balance the bouquet. “They’re from Tristan,” she says, a hint of amusement in her voice. “He really went all out this time.”
The sight of the arrangement is overwhelming. I reach out, fingers grazing the edges of the roses, feeling the cool, velvety texture of the petals. The bouquet, the careful combination of colors—they say everything Tristan would say if he were standing here.
“I didn’t expect this,” I say quietly, my gaze fixed on the bouquet.
As my fingers move through the bouquet, they find a gold-edged card nestled among the roses. I pluck it from between the petals.
Tristan’s handwriting is instantly recognizable, strong strokes of black pen across the card.
Chloe,
I know that I hurt you. It’s the biggest regret of my life so far, and believe me when I say that’s a high bar. I want you to know that I’m deeply sorry for everything—I’m so fucking sorry, Dimples.
I’m aware that’s not enough, but I’m committed to doing whatever it takes to make things right. I love you more than words can express, and I’m here, ready to fight for us. I hope these roses can at least show you how much you mean to me, even if only a little.
Forever yours,
Tristan
My chest tightens as I read his note. The words land on something raw, both soothing and stirring up all the emotions I’ve been trying to manage.
I look up to find Ivy watching me with a small, sympathetic smile. “Let me put these in water for you,” she says.
The next day, as I’m adjusting to the strange mixture of hope and hurt, another delivery arrives. This time, there are two dozen more roses, their colors even more striking against the gray of the morning. I take in the sight of them—long-stemmed and bold, gold and black, like the others.
Alongside the bouquet is another note.
Chloe,
I’m sending you these because I wanted you to know how much I miss you.
I’ve been watching all those movies you told me about—ones you said made you laugh, cry, and feel everything in between.
I thought if I could watch them too, it might help me feel closer to you, to understand you better.
It’s been oddly comforting, although nothing compares to being with you.
I’m counting the moments until I can make things right. I miss you so fucking much.
Forever yours,
Tristan
Predictably, by this point, yet another delivery of roses arrives the next day. It’s almost surreal. The condo is practically overflowing with them. There are so many that they crowd every available surface, their colors and heady fragrance filling the space.
I’m stunned as I unpack the latest batch. The roses spill out of their boxes, the petals ink-black and perfect, mixed with bright yellow and gold. I find another note tucked among the blooms, and I’m almost afraid to read it.
But when I unfold the paper and read Tristan’s handwriting, something in my chest pulls tight.
Chloe,
I’m not stopping. I meant every word when I said I’m not giving up on us. I’ll keep sending these roses, keep trying, and keep fighting for you—until you believe it, until you see that I’m here and I’m not going anywhere. I’ll do this for as long as it takes because you’re worth every moment.
—Tristan
Ivy walks into the foyer, a mug in her hands. She stops short at the sight of the latest rose shipment. She dunks her teabag, pursing her lips like she’s trying not to laugh.
“We’re going to run out of space,” I say weakly.
“Well, you’ve got to give him credit for persistence,” she says, a teasing lilt in her voice.
I nod, unable to stop a small, wistful smile. “Yeah, I guess I do.”
The next evening, I’m settled on Ivy’s couch, a blanket draped over my legs and a bowl of ice cream in hand. The room is cozy, the soft glow of the lamp casting a warm light over us.
My body is healing, and while that’s a relief, there’s a dull ache in my heart that’s not so easily mended.
I’m currently unemployed, which is something I’ll need to address soon.
But for now, all I can do is focus on healing and try to reclaim a sense of normalcy, even if it’s just through shared moments like this.
I look over at Ivy, who’s sitting cross-legged next to me, her bowl of ice cream half-finished. “So. You’re sure you’re voting for The Hangover?”
She spoons pistachio ice cream into her mouth and shrugs. “Sure. Why not?”
“Because it’s a terrible movie, that’s why not.”
“It’s fun,” Ivy protests. “It’s way funnier than any of your picks—”
A knock at the door interrupts her, and a slow smile spreads across her face. She sets her ice cream bowl on the coffee table.
“I bet I know what that is,” she declares in a sing-song. “Although honestly, I’m running out of places to put all these flowers.” She jumps up from the couch with a smirk and heads toward the door. “I’ll get it. Maybe this time they’ll come with a singing telegram. Do those even still exis—”
She breaks off as she turns the doorknob and sees who’s outside. Her mouth falls open, and she casts a glance back in my direction, her eyes wide and worried.
That’s when I hear his voice. God, I’ve missed that voice.
“I’m here for my wife.”
Ivy looks flustered. She starts to shake her head, but now that he’s here, so close, I can’t bear the idea of not seeing him. I catch her eye, giving her a small nod to indicate that it’s fine.
She steps back, clearly trying to melt into the wall, as Tristan enters the room. He’s holding another bouquet, a dozen roses—six black, six gold. His expression holds both determination and vulnerability, and the sight of him makes my pulse jump.
Ivy gives us a knowing look before excusing herself, leaving Tristan and me alone. As the door closes behind her, his eyes lock onto mine, pinning me in place. It’s as if he’s seeing me for the first time in ages, and his gaze sweeps over me like he’s checking me over for any sign of harm.
He looks like a starving man who’s found himself at a feast. It takes a long moment before he speaks, and when he does, his voice is quiet.
“How have you been?”
I can’t lie and tell him I’ve been alright. He’d see through that. But I don’t know quite how to answer honestly.
Instead, I sigh. “What are you doing here?”
“I know things got fucked up between us, and it’s my fault. I made mistakes I can’t even begin to make amends for. I wrecked the best thing I’ve ever had in my life.” He takes a step toward me, his gaze searching mine.
I open my mouth to say something, although I’m not even sure what, but Tristan holds up a hand, a plea in his eyes.
“I can’t eat, can’t sleep, can’t live without you. I can’t let you go, dimples. Not without a fight. I came here to beg for another chance. Not to ask you to put the ring back on or come home with me, but just for… a date.”
The word date hangs in the air between us, a simple request that somehow carries a thousand possibilities. It’s such a small thing, but it feels huge in the context of everything that’s happened.
“I want us to start from the beginning. To build a relationship that we both know is true and real from the outset. Because it’s real for me, Chloe. The way I feel about you is the realest thing there is.”
His confession is raw, laid bare in front of me. He takes another step closer.
“I’ll never want anyone else the way I want you. I’m asking for a chance to prove that to you, to show you that this”—he gestures between us, his voice catching slightly—”is something worth fighting for.”
His words touch something deep inside me. A tear slips down my cheek despite my effort to stay composed.
“Chloe, I need you to know something,” he continues. “I love you. I love you so fucking much. I started falling for you long before the will reading. Whenever you were in the room, I couldn’t look anywhere else. I never want to be anywhere but with you. When I’m with you, I can breathe.”
And before I can respond—tell him that he’s breaking my heart all over again, or that I’m still too hurt to fully accept his words—he drops to his knees.
“Please. I’m begging you. Just one date. That’s all I’m asking for. I want to show you how much you mean to me. Just give me that chance.”
My pulse is racing, and tears well up in my eyes as I try to take in his words. The vulnerability in Tristan’s plea, the sincerity in his eyes… it all feels like too much.
I take a deep breath, trying to pull myself together. The tears escape despite my efforts to hold them back. I nod, not trusting my voice.
Tristan lets out a breath, relief crossing his features. He takes a moment to collect himself before he speaks again. “Thank you.”
“Where are we going?”
“The Regency?” Tristan suggests. “Eight o’clock, Friday night. I’ll make a reservation.”
I nod again. “I can do that.”
“Okay.” Tristan smiles at me. “I’ll see you then.”
As he turns to leave, nervous excitement runs through me. I sink slowly back onto the couch, dazed—but happy. Hopeful, for the first time in a long time.
Almost as soon as the front door closes, Ivy reappears, biting her lip with both eyebrows raised. She perches on the edge of the couch, grinning.
“So… what happened? How’d it go?”
I can’t help smiling, excitement bubbling up as I say, “I’ve got a date.”