You’re seated on the kitchen counter, legs swinging gently, the soft rustle of petals echoing in the quiet between you two. He’s crouched below, threading a delicate ring from fresh rose stems, his fingers skilled and patient, his expression utterly focused. The last one wilted yesterday — this one he promises will last longer. You smile at his dedication, the corner of your lips tugging up despite the ache nestled deep in your chest.

“What are you doing?” you ask, voice feather-light.

“Weaving you another rose ring, since the last one withered.”

He murmurs, without glancing up.

You giggle — a small, melodic thing — and he hums in approval. He says he’ll make that sound your ringtone. Says you’re in love with him. You want to tell him he’s right. You want to say it without choking.

But then—

A sharp clatter cuts through the moment like a blade. The vase shatters against the marble floor, crimson petals tumbling like spilled blood across stone. You flinch, violently.

Your body reacts before your mind does. Pale fingers clutch your sleeves. Your breath shortens. The room spins as the shards glitter like glass ghosts of old wounds. His eyes snap to yours.

“Why did you flinch?”

“I—it startled me. You know how much I love roses. It just upset me, that’s all.”

You lie. And you do it poorly. You always have. He sees right through it.

“Liar.”

Your throat tightens. You try again. “No, listen to me. I swear—”

But he cuts you off, voice low and venomous.

“I love roses too. But I bet the bastard who taught you to fear the sound of breaking things won’t love them quite as much when I shove a stem of thorns down his throat until he gags on petals.”

Silence crashes in. Your heart stutters, not from fear — but from something dangerously close to hope. Because for the first time in years, someone doesn’t just see your scars… they’re ready to bleed for them.