Two months. That’s how long it had been. Two months of this strange in-between. We were together, but not really. A night here, a night there, but never enough to define it. No commitments. No labels. It was easy. At least, I thought it was.

Then I saw it.

Her story: A picture of her holding a massive bouquet of roses. Not just any roses — they were beautiful. But I knew she hated roses. She’d always told me she loved peonies.

I froze.

Who was sending her roses? Was she seeing someone else? My mind spiraled, panic rushing through my veins. I didn’t care that we weren’t “official.” I didn’t care about the silence between us. What mattered was that someone else might step in where I hadn’t.

I didn’t waste any time. I rushed to the nearest florist, picked out the biggest bouquet of peonies I could find, and drove straight to her apartment. The adrenaline coursing through me was ridiculous, but I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t let this go. I couldn’t lose her.

Without knocking, I barged into her apartment, my heart racing. She was standing in front of a mirror, putting on her shoes, clearly getting ready to head out.

She froze when she saw me.

“Lando?” she asked, her voice full of confusion.

I didn’t wait for her to finish. I couldn’t. I needed to say it.

“I saw your story,” I blurted out, holding the flowers out in front of me. “And I don’t know what I was doing, but I can’t just sit around and wait for someone else to step in. You can’t drop something like that on me and expect me to walk away.” I crossed the threshold without waiting for permission. “I know we’re not ‘official,’ and I’ve probably been an idiot for not making things clearer, but I can’t just act like I don’t care. I need to know what this is. So don’t tell me I’m too late.”