The air was crisp with the scent of freshly turned earth and blooming roses. You knelt in the garden of the Coombe House, fingers dusted with soil as you carefully patted it around a patch of daisies. The quiet of the morning wrapped around you like a comforting blanket—the soft hum of bees, birds trilling in the distance, and the occasional shuffle of boots inside the house. It was a rare kind of peace here, a brief reprieve for the men who carried more weight than they let on.

You didn’t hear him at first, too focused on the flowers. But then came the soft crunch of boots on gravel, deliberate but not hurried. You glanced over your shoulder, and there he was—Robert Rosenthal, or “Rosie,” as most people called him. His sleeves were rolled up, his bomber jacket slung over one shoulder, and his hair was tousled in a way that looked more effortless than intentional. His forearms were flecked with dirt, probably from the fence repairs he’d been helping with earlier. A cigarette dangled loosely between his fingers, unlit as always, more of a prop than anything else.

“Morning,” he said, his voice low, warm, and just rough enough to betray how tired he probably was.

You stood, brushing the dirt off your hands onto your trousers. “Morning, Rosie.”

For a moment, he just stood there, his gaze sweeping over the garden and then landing back on you. His lips tugged up into that faint, lopsided smile you’d noticed before—a smile that always felt like it was meant just for you. “You always this good with flowers,” he asked, nodding toward the daisies, “or is it the Coombe charm rubbing off on you?”