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The flowers catch Kate by surprise.
She’s not expecting flowers. Obviously she’s not expecting flowers. It’s a perfectly normal Thursday in the middle of March, and she’s just arrived at work to find them on her desk, and there’s no one in her life with whom she’s on flower-buying terms, and anyway - she’s not even sure she’s that into flowers.
She presumes it’s a prank at first. She thinks that’s the most likely explanation. She and Anthony have been friends with benefits since the office Christmas party, more or less, and she presumes that one or other of his siblings has got wind of this and decided to have ostensibly romantic flowers sent to her for a prank.
It’s a pretty classy prank, though. She must admit that. This is a proper luxury-delivery bouquet, all in shades of white and pink. She can see tulips and roses and some other pink ruffle-petaled things she can’t even identify.
That’s how much she knows about flowers.
She steps right up close to her desk and to that bouquet, inspects it carefully. It does seem like a very lovely bouquet. If this is Eloise pulling her leg, then Eloise has put a lot of effort in.
There’s a little pink notecard nestled amongst the flowers, so she reaches for it, cautious.
She doesn’t know why she’s cautious. It’s not as if little pink notecards bite.
No - she does know why she’s cautious. She’s cautious, because bouquets are not a feature of her life. She’s an argumentative type, not a bouquets type. She’s a resolutely single type, too. Even amidst this whole friends with benefits thing with Anthony, lately, she’s very very aware that he dated her sister, briefly and publicly, several years ago now - and that she’s simply not that girl.
She’s the girl who’s been pining pathetically for him for as long as she’s known him, instead, and has wrapped that pining up in odd layers of bickering and friendship and fun.
She unfolds the notecard. She looks at it, careful, waits for the situation to make sense.
That never happens.
There’s just one word inside the notecard. In fact - there’s just one letter.
A.
That’s it.
Just that - full stop and all.
He’s so absurdly dramatic that she could scream, frankly.
At least now she knows they’re from him. At least there’s that. There’s no way his siblings could impersonate him that well. There’s no one else on this earth who would send a bouquet the size of a beach ball and such a short, stilted note.
She knows him well enough to be confident of that.
She wonders what to do about the situation. It still doesn’t make sense to her, honestly. She still can’t fathom a world in which he sends his friend with benefits absurd bouquets, but that’s clearly what has happened, here. She’s not sure whether to play it off lightly, pretend nothing unusual happened - or whether it’s an invitation to sit on his face right here in the office.
She supposes it might be something in between, if they were a more emotionally literate pair, but that doesn’t seem likely, does it?
She should probably try to speak to him about it. That does seem like the brave thing to do - and she thinks she is brave, most of the time, when she’s not worrying about handing over her heart.
It occurs to her that there’s something very brave about him sending her flowers, when it’s really not their usual thing.
Good. She’d best match that, then. She can’t have him winning, can she?
She marches down the hall to his office without further ado.
There aren’t many other people about this early, and she’s grateful for that. She’d never know how to handle the situation if Cressida were here watching her every move. And it’d be still worse, she thinks, if someone like Tom Dorset brought his gentle curiosity to the party.
She arrives at Anthony’s absurd glass-fronted office, knocks awkwardly at the door.
“Come in.” He calls.
She does.
And then -
“You can always come in, you know. What sort of person knocks at a glass office? It’s not like I need a warning that you’re here.” He argues, because of course he does.
She simply raises her brows at him, pulls her best unimpressed face.
“How’s your morning so far?” He asks now, since pleasantries and piquancy belong side-by-side in this relationship.
“Funny you should ask. You’ll never guess what’s on my desk this morning.” She deadpans.
“Hmm - hang on - I know this one.” He offers, with exaggerated thoughtfulness. “I think it was a bouquet of roses and tulips. Or at least, I hope it was a bouquet of roses and tulips, or else I’ll have to -”
“So that was you?” She interrupts to check.
He scoffs. “Course it was. Is there someone else in your life I should know about?”
She doesn’t dignify that with an answer. She cuts to a more useful part of the chase instead.
“Thank you. They’re really lovely.”
He visibly softens in relief. “Thank God. Do you even like roses? I thought you liked tulips - I can’t remember how I know that - but the roses felt like a risk.”
“I guess I do like tulips - and roses. I’ve never thought about it much before now. Having flowers on my desk is new.” She dares to say outright, dares to take the bull by the horns at last.
He’s suddenly very very fascinated by the stapler on his desk. “I thought I might as well give it a try. I might as well try to show you a bit of honest affection once in a while. I know I’m not much good at it, but I think I should make a project of it if you’ll put up with me.”
She moves the stapler resolutely away from him and grabs for his hand, instead. “I think we should go out for dinner tonight.”
“Dinner?”
“What - you can send me flowers but I can’t suggest dinner?” She asks, all sharp and fond.
“I just - you know - isn’t that moving too quickly?”
“Anthony, sweetheart - we’ve been fucking since December.”
He grins at her. “Ah yes - so we have.”
“It’s now March.” She points out for good measure.
“Yes.” He agrees. “That’s why there are flowers on your desk, I guess. Spring is in the air, or something like that. Apparently it’s the right time of year for local tulips.”
“You made it as far as finding out the right time of year for local tulips?” She echoes, because that does sound like a fair amount of effort has been put in.
“Mmm. I didn’t want you to think I was being half-hearted about it - any of it. I know I must look half-hearted when I don’t say anything about - about us, but -”
“No. That’s not fair.” She insists, shaking her head. “It’s not like I’ve ever tried to define the relationship either. This isn’t on you.”
“It is.” He argues, staunch. “I suck at putting my heart on the line - I was determined to pretend I didn’t even have one, until I met you - and - and - I want to change that. It’s like… being with you, these last few months - it’s like my heart’s coming out of hibernation.”
She blinks at him, utterly stunned.
“Kate?”
She keeps blinking.
“Kate?”
“It’s like your heart’s coming out of hibernation?” She echoes, faint.
“You heard me.”
“Being with me is like being a fluffy little bear coming out of hibernation? We’re not just into flowers now - we’re into fluffy nature metaphors?”
“Similes.” He corrects her, sharp, because of course he does. “So - as I was saying - spring flowers, my heart coming out of hibernation - something about defining the relationship…?”
She doesn’t bother trying to answer that in words. She simply wraps her arms around him and hugs him, hard.
There will be other days for urgent kisses. In fact - they’ve certainly shared enough of those, in recent months. And she’s not much in the mood for sitting on his face right here in his office, either, because she knows what his face feels like, and it’s good, but it’s a sensation she has grown pretty familiar with.
This - this pure emotional closeness, this warm, fluffy comfort - is something new. This man she has adored and been frustrated at in equal measure for so many years is suddenly flinging himself at her, trusting her to catch him, bad nature metaphors and all.
Sorry - similes. Mustn’t lose that one.
“We’re definitely doing dinner.” She informs him, somewhere near his ear.
“Sounds perfect.”
“We’re definitely dating, too.”
“Even better.”
“And I promise to keep your heart warm and fluffy, and not to let it freeze on the drifting pack-ice or -”
“Kate.”
“Mmm?”
“You can stop with the bear thing now.”
She laughs, and he laughs, and they stand there together in his office, holding one another close and laughing.
Suddenly, all at once, he asks her an urgent question.
“What did you think of the flowers? Really - not just the gesture, the actual flowers? I need to know what to get next time. I wondered about sending you a feedback form, but then I thought you’d say something mean about me being fussy or pedantic.”
“I’d say it fondly, though.” She argues.
“I know. Still can’t let you have such an easy win.”
“I guess I like them. No - that’s not true - I do really like them. I don’t know flowers, but they’re good flowers. But - to be clear - I like you more.”
“Ah.”
“The flowers were unnecessary.”
“Ah.”
“You didn’t need to buy them.”
“Hmm. I’m getting that right about now. All the same, I think I’ll get some next week too.”
She laughs again, louder and longer this time, and presses a fond, messy kiss to his neck.
“Thank you.” She tells him, warm. “Thank you for this - for defrosting my heart too - not just for the flowers.”
“Thank you.” He counters, with careful emphasis. “Thank you for taking my bad metaphors and making them even worse. And thank you for everything else - all of it.”
She squeezes him a little firmer in the hug, at that.
She’ll pull away soon. Really, she will. She’ll pull back, kiss him goodbye, go and get on with her day. She’ll spend an hour or two thinking about bad nature metaphors, then do a bit of work, then spend an hour or two more on planning this dinner date in perfect detail - detail her pedantic partner would be proud of.
But not yet. Not right this second. Not immediately.
After all these years, she thinks they both need a few more moments to stay put and enjoy the thaw.