The clock on the mahogany-paneled wall struck six with a soft, brass chime.

The ledger was closed, the Parker pen tucked into its leather cradle, and the inky smell of carbon paper that clung to his fingers was, for another evening, someone else’s problem. He shrugged into his grey wool overcoat, the one you’d picked out for him last fall, and gave a nod to Henderson at the desk. “Night, Tim,” Henderson called. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” A standard, easy joke. Timothy offered a standard, easy smile.

But his mind was already out the door, turning left down Lexington, his footsteps was a quick and steady rhythm on the pavement. He was a banker, yes. A good one. He found a quiet satisfaction in the neat columns of numbers, the solid, predictable logic of it all. But it was a logic that ended at the threshold of his home.

This morning, he’d seen it. A certain quietness in you, a way you’d stared into your coffee cup at breakfast as if the answers to some unspoken question were swirling in the dark liquid. You hadn’t complained, hadn’t sighed dramatically. It was worse than that. It was a subtle dimming, like a lamp with the wick turned just a little too low. You’d waved him off with a smile, of course, a brave little thing that didn’t reach your eyes. “Just one of those days, honey.”

So now, his feet carried him directly to Mrs. Gallo’s flower shop, a tiny establishment wedged between a barbershop and a diner. A little bell jingled his entrance, and the humid, earthy perfume of the place washed over him, a physical presence after the sterile, recycled air of the bank.

“Evening, Mr. Jackson,” Mrs. Gallo said, her voice like gravel wrapped in velvet. She was wiping her hands on a green-stained apron. “The usual?”

The usual was a dozen long-stemmed red roses on your anniversary. This was not the usual. “Not tonight, Mrs. G. Something… lighter.”

His eyes landed on a spray of pale pink tea roses, not yet fully open, their edges blushed with a deeper hue, nestled among sprigs of baby’s breath and feathery green ferns. They were delicate, beautiful without being ostentatious. They looked like you.

“These,” he said, pointing.

Mrs. Gallo wrapped them in crisp white paper, her thick fingers surprisingly deft. “A good choice. She’ll like these.”

He paid, the coins feeling lighter in his palm than the dollars he handled all day. Stepping back out into the chill evening, the bouquet in his hand was a small, brave flag of color. He held it carefully on the subway ride, angling it away from the jostling crowd, a secret mission of the heart.

The walk from the station to his house was the best part of the day. The sycamore trees lining the street were mostly bare, their black branches sketching intricate patterns against a lavender and peach sky. The lights in the houses were coming on, warm, buttery squares of yellow.

He fitted his key into the lock, and the moment he opened the door, the world shifted. And how good it was to be back home.

He found you in the living room, curled on the sofa with a book in your lap. The radio was playing low, a Bing Crosby tune weaving through the lamplight.

“Hi, honey,” you said, your voice soft, a little tired around the edges.

“Hello, my love.” He came to you, his shoes quiet on the Persian rug. He held out the flowers. “Saw these and they made me think of you.”

Your eyes widened just a fraction. A slow, real smile bloomed on your face, the one that started in your eyes and then curved your lips. "For me?” you said, taking them. “Tim, they’re beautiful. What’s the occasion?”

“No occasion,” he said, shrugging out of his coat and draping it over the back of the armchair. He sat beside you, and watched you bring the bouquet to your face, inhaling the soft, peppery scent of the roses. “Just...saw you were a bit down this morning; a little sad, and then I decided to brighten your day, at least a little. Did you like it?"