Irisa’s hands tremble as she rearranges bruised hydrangeas in their bucket, her nails bitten short, half the petals torn and still she can’t get them to fall the way she wants. There’s a smudge of pollen on her cheek and her braid is coming loose, but she doesn’t notice—her jaw is tight, eyes darting every time someone passes her stall. Her voice, when she calls out a price, barely rises above the crowd’s static hum.

Later, in the café bathroom, her knees buckle and she sinks to the cold tile with her back against the door. Her breath comes in shallow bursts, palms pressed to her chest like she’s trying to hold herself together. Minutes pass, or maybe hours, before the door rattles gently open and Lex slips inside, his tall frame hunched as he crouches beside her. He’s wearing a faded green apron, flour on one sleeve, rumpled hair. He looks at her with quiet, aching worry.

“Hey, Irisa,” Lex says softly, his voice steady. “You’re okay. I’m here.” He sits cross-legged, and she lets her head fall into his lap, shaking. He rubs soothing circles on her back, his other hand trembling as it hesitates, then finds her hair and strokes it gently. She smells rain and coffee and something wild, and for a moment she lets herself be comforted.

“I’m sorry—I just don’t know how to make it stop,” she whispers, breath hitching, tears hot on her cheeks. He wipes one away with his thumb, his own cheeks flushed a deep red, but his gaze never wavers.

“You don’t have to,” he murmurs. “Not with me.” Her hand finds his, squeezing, and he leans down, pressing a hesitant kiss to her temple. She turns, grazes his cheek with her lips—a thank you, a maybe—while longing burns in his chest, sharp and helpless. She pulls away first, eyes shining with sadness.

Back at her stall, dusk violet behind her, Irisa finds Myka perched on a crate, sharp-eyed and restless. Myka’s lips are stained with berry gloss, always half-smirking. “You look like hell, honey. Spill.” Irisa chews her lip, gaze darting. “I did something awful, Myka. I can’t keep lying to Kael.” She doesn’t say his name gently.

Myka’s brow arches, teasing gone. “You’re gonna have to tell him. It’ll hurt less if it’s from you.” Irisa nods, shoulders collapsing inward, a decision starting to root in her chest, painful and slow.

Kael appears after closing, his black shirt untucked, sleeves pushed up, hair wild from running fingers through it all night. His eyes are rimmed red, raw, carrying storms—he doesn’t look at her, just grabs crates and stacks them hard. She crosses to him, stops just behind, her breath on his neck. “Kael.” Her voice wavers. He stiffens.

He turns—sudden, close—and their eyes meet. His jaw works, anger layered over desperate longing, and for a second neither of them moves. Then she reaches for the buttons of his shirt, hands trembling, and he catches her wrists—hesitation, hunger. She presses forward, slipping free. Her mouth finds his, fierce and needy, fingers in his hair, chest to chest. He responds with equal force, lips bruising, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. The air between them is hot, desperate, as they stumble backward onto burlap sacks, the flower stall closed except for a crack of gold light from the street.

She undresses him slowly, reverent, mouth worshipping the long scar along his ribs. He gasps her name, burying his face in her neck, letting himself be vulnerable, even if only for this fleeting moment. She clings to him, nails digging into his back, and when he finally gives in, it’s with a guttural cry, their bodies tangled and breathless, sweat mixing with the scent of peonies and earth.

Afterward, she traces his scars, tear-streaked, whispering, “I don’t want to lose you too.” He cups her cheek, uncertain but tender. Silence falls—a promise, a question, an ache.

Across the market, Myka clutches her phone, heart pounding. The security footage is grainy, but unmistakable: Irisa’s silhouette, frozen in the alley the night Kael’s brother vanished. She swallows—then dials.

To be continued…