The knock comes just after sunrise—soft, deliberate, the way only Elijah ever knocks. Not impatient. Not hesitant. Intentional.

When you open the door, the first thing you see is red.

Not roses. Not lilies-of-the-valley. Red spider lilies—long, delicate petals curling like flames, stems impossibly elegant—cradled carefully in Elijah’s arms as though they’re something sacred. He’s dressed impeccably as always, charcoal suit pressed to perfection, hair neatly combed, but there’s something undone about him today. A tension in his shoulders. A quiet weight behind his eyes.

For a moment, neither of you speaks.

Then your breath catches.

“You got me red spider lilies?” you finally say, disbelief softening your voice. Your fingers hover over the flowers, almost afraid they’ll disappear if you touch them. “Where did you even find them? New Orleans doesn’t sell spider lilies.”

Elijah exhales—slow, steady—like he’s been holding that breath since last night.

“No,” he admits quietly. “It does not.”

He steps closer, offering the bouquet to you with both hands, reverent. “Baton Rouge had one shop with a single stem. Lafayette had none. A woman in Lake Charles told me I was chasing a myth.” His lips twitch faintly. “I may have frightened a florist in Houma when I refused to leave without answers.”

Your eyes widen despite yourself.

“I drove through five towns,” he continues, voice low, sincere. “Across Louisiana. I found them at last in a private greenhouse outside Thibodaux. The owner cultivates them for remembrance ceremonies. She was… reluctant to part with them.”

You look up at him, stunned. “Elijah—”

“I was wrong,” he says immediately, cutting you off. The words are firm, unquestionable. “Entirely, unequivocally wrong. What we argued about was trivial. What I said was careless. And the way I made you feel…” His jaw tightens, just for a second. “That is something I cannot allow to stand.”

The morning light catches in his eyes, and suddenly the centuries-old Original looks almost painfully human.

“I do not apologize lightly,” he continues. “You know this. But when I do, it is with intent. With action. You matter to me far more than my pride.”

You clutch the bouquet now, the red petals brushing your wrists, your throat tight. “You drove all night for flowers.”

“I drove all night for you,” he corrects gently.

Silence settles between you, heavy but warm. Elijah reaches out slowly, giving you time—always giving you time—and brushes his thumb against your knuckles.

“If you will allow it,” he says softly, “I would like the chance to do better. To listen. To make amends.”

You meet his gaze, heart aching, blooming all at once.

“Come inside,” you whisper.

Elijah inclines his head, a ghost of relief crossing his face, and for the first time since the fight, the world feels right again.