Kiana took the bouquet, thanked him, and went to find a vase.

Her hands were shaking.

In their five years together, Darius had only bought her flowers twice—on her birthday and sometimes on Mother’s Day—and even that had been inconsistent.

“Do you like them?” he asked, peeking into the kitchen.

“Very much,” she replied, trimming the stems with scissors. “They’re beautiful.”

He stood in the doorway, his hands shoved into his jeans pockets, looking at her as if he wanted to say something, but he didn’t.

He just nodded and walked into the living room.

Kiana set the vase on the windowsill and wiped her hands on a dish towel.

Something was brewing.