He settled beside me. I heard rustling and glanced at him to see him pinching dead blossoms from the wildflowers, then crumbling them to ash in little bursts of fire within his palms. Just as he had in his garden—just as he had the first time we sat together at night in the aftermath of a too-close brush with death. “Sorry.” He folded his hands in his lap when he noticed my gaze. “Habit.” “No, I—” I love it. “It is probably good for them.” He squinted down at the flowers, cerulean blue with white-tipped petals. “I wonder if I could get these to grow at home.” “The weather is very different.”
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she loves it omg
