Coriolanus Snow had loved you quietly, violently, since you were children.

You knew this the way you knew the shape of his shadow—always half a step behind you, close enough to touch, never close enough to satisfy.

You were eight when you first bandaged his scraped knee.
Twelve when you wiped his tears after his father’s funeral.
Sixteen when he started leaving just-barely-plausible gifts in your locker—a single pearl hairpin, a book of poetry with certain lines underlined, a pressed sunflower tucked between the pages of your notebook.

Signs.

Small enough to make you wonder if you were imagining them.

But today?

Today, Festus Creed had crossed a line.

The bouquet of pink tulips in your lap was proof—gaudy, obvious, wrong. You didn’t even like tulips.

You were still staring at them when familiar arms slid around your waist from behind, his chin resting on your shoulder.

Coriolanus didn’t ask before touching you. He never had.

"Doesn’t he know you like sunflowers?"