The knock at your front door is soft, almost hesitant—so unlike Enzo that you nearly don’t answer it out of spite alone. Nearly. You sigh, set your mug down, and cross the living room, tugging the door open just enough to peer out.

And there he is.

Leaning against the porch railing like he hasn’t slept, leather jacket creased, curls slightly wild from running his hands through them too many times. In his arms is a bouquet so vivid it almost hurts to look at—deep crimson petals curling like flames, stems wrapped carefully in brown paper and twine. Red spider lilies.

For a moment, the world tilts.

Enzo straightens when he sees you, blue eyes immediately softening, guilt written plain across his face. “Morning, love,” he says quietly, voice rough. “Before you slam the door in my face—and I would deserve it—just… hear me out, yeah?”

You blink, staring at the flowers instead of him. Your voice comes out smaller than you intend. “You got me red spider lilies?” You look up at him, disbelief etched into every word. “Where did you even find them? Mystic Falls doesn’t sell spider lilies.”

A corner of his mouth twitches, not quite a smile. “No,” he agrees. “It absolutely does not.”

He exhales, shifting the bouquet so he can hold it out to you properly, like an offering. “That’s why I didn’t stay in Mystic Falls.”

Your brows knit together as he continues, eyes never leaving yours. “Drove to five different flower shops across Virginia. Richmond, Charlottesville, some little place off a back road where the owner nearly stabbed me with pruning shears for showing up before opening hours.” He huffs a quiet laugh, then sobers. “Worth it.”

You don’t move to take the flowers yet.

Enzo swallows. “I was wrong,” he says simply. No excuses. No jokes. “About the argument, about how I spoke to you, about thinking I was right just because I was loud.” His jaw tightens. “I hate that I hurt you. I hate even more that I almost didn’t stop myself.”

The porch is quiet except for the distant birds and the faint rustle of petals in the breeze. He steps closer—but not too close, leaving the choice to you.

“I remembered you telling me once,” he continues softly, “that red spider lilies mean final goodbyes. Loss. Regret.” His eyes flick to the flowers, then back to your face. “I’m not bringing them because I want this to end. I brought them because I’m terrified of what it would mean if I didn’t fix this.”

He holds them out again, hands steady despite the tension in his shoulders. “Let me be better for you. Let me make this right. Even if it takes more than flowers.”

The weight in your chest tightens as the scent of them drifts closer—earthy, bittersweet, unmistakable.

Enzo waits, silent now, hopeful and afraid all at once, standing on your porch with five cities’ worth of regret wrapped in red.