There’s also a sink in the corner with more counter space, and off to the side, two big cooling fridges, the kind you might find in an actual florist’s shop.

It finally starts to sink in what is happening here. This is for me. He arranged this space for me and Bridge and Blooms. I run my hands along the worn wood countertop, taking a minute to collect myself. Pesky emotions swirl around in my mind like a damn whirlpool and I’m caught in their pull.

“You did all of this for me?” My words are thick with unshed tears, and fuck, I’d give anything to not actually cry right now, as if letting out my tears is tantamount to cutting myself open and baring my soul. Which it kind of is.

“I didn’t really have to do much. The space was just sitting up here unused.” He steps closer to me, closing the distance between us to just a couple of feet. “I’m tempted to pretend I wanted my kitchen back, but we both know how I feel about cooking.”

I appreciate his attempt at humor, but I can’t make myself laugh. Or even smile. It’s too much. It’s all too much.

Wetness streams down my cheeks, and I don’t even try to stop it. I’m not sure I could.

“Shit, Sadie. Why are you crying? Did I fuck it all up?” He reaches out a hand and covers one of mine.

I pull away, under the guise of needing to wipe at my eyes, but mostly I’m just afraid of what his gentle touch will do to me.

He crosses to the sink in the corner and comes back with a wad of paper towels. “Will you talk to me, please? Whatever it is I screwed up, I promise I’ll do what I can to fix it.”

Rubbing at my eyes with the scratchy paper leaves them more raw than they already were. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” I gesture helplessly to the space around us. “This is the nicest, most perfect, most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for me.”

He steps back into my space, and this time I let him. Removing the paper towels from my hand, he gently wipes away my last stray tears with the pads of his thumbs.

I force myself to look in his eyes, grateful when my own tear up again, blurring this perfect vision in front of me. “I don’t deserve you, Jack. Not as a roommate, or a friend, or . . .” I don’t finish the thought, but it ends with I sure as fuck don’t deserve you as any kind of romantic partner.

“Why would you say that?” He continues to catch my falling tears, his thumbs gentle on my rubbed-raw skin.