Emma's Pov
I should have hung up the moment I heard his breath.
That familiar, steady inhale, always too calm for a man who carried storms behind his ribs. But instead of ending the call, I froze, like my body had been waiting for him long before my mind found the courage to admit it.
"Emma."
Just my name, nothing more but it was enough to make every part of me tighten—my chest, my throat, the spaces I had carefully stitched together after he left.
I told myself I only called to thank him. That was true, technically. The orchids sat on my kitchen table like a memory that refused to be boxed away. It was slow to bloom, hard to kill. Just like us.
But if I was being honest…
A small part of me just wanted to hear his voice again.
The silence between us felt strangely alive, not awkward, it was full of everything we didn't say.
"You're calling late," he murmured.
