Ryley hadn't even caught his breath when Soren spun on his heels and stormed out, his footsteps fading fast.
He stood frozen, still reeling. He would be lying if he said he wasn't surprised—surprised that Soren had come here at all, not to mock or to gloat, but to warn him. To tell him to behave. As if Clyde's hurt mattered more to him than seizing the chance to drive them further apart.
That was what unsettled Ryley most.
Ryley's brow furrowed hard as the weight of the paper pressed against his palm.
A thought seized him and, without hesitation, he rushed to his drawers, pulling them open with shaking fingers until his breath hitched at the sight of it—the same poem Clyde had once sent him, folded neatly, pressed between his belongings like a secret he couldn't bear to lose.
The words were identical.
So why did Soren have this too?
The memory of the bouquet flashed through him. The chamomiles… wasn't it Soren who had delivered them that day?
