The city was busy that morning, sunlight bouncing off tall glass buildings. Ethan drove with one hand on the wheel, sunglasses perched on his nose, a soft hum escaping him as he thought about Tara's face when she saw him walk into her hospital unannounced.
Halfway there, he spotted a florist shop and pulled over. The bell over the door jingled as he stepped inside.
The florist, an elderly man with white hair and sharp eyes, looked up. "Need flowers?"
"Yep," Ethan said, scanning the rows of fresh blooms. "Something classic, but not too over the top. She's not the type for giant teddy bears holding heart balloons."
The man smirked. "Wife?"
"Doctor," Ethan corrected with pride. "Which means she's seen too many hospital bouquets to be impressed by the usual stuff."
The florist chuckled and started assembling a bouquet—deep red roses for love, soft peach ones for warmth, and a little baby's breath for lightness. He tied them neatly with a gold ribbon.
