Page 123 of Citius

Accepting the gifts from Rory, I left the gym, intending to return to my room to shower.

From the profusion of red roses in the bouquet, I had a strong suspicion about the sender’s identity. I went through the motion of smelling the blooms—mentally overlaying the memory of their fresh, floral romance.

“The darker the rose,”Jacobi once told me after venting his anger over a breakup by buying himself three dozen black roses,“the deeper the symbolism.”

Tracing a merlot-tinged petal with my fingertip, I couldn’t help but wonder what message Wyatt was trying to convey—new beginnings, burning desire, or mourning a love that had long since slipped away.

“Do I have time to take a shower?” Rory’s voice interrupted my ruminations. He had class at eight, and I was planning to drop him off on my way to the sports medicine clinic.

I glanced at my phone to check the time. “If you can manage it in thenext forty-five minutes.”

“Sure thing, boss.” Rory bounded up the stairs but paused midway. “For what it’s worth,” he said, brushing the narwhal horn out of his eyes, “I like them. All of them.”

“Who—Pack Redmond?”

“Yeah, especially Cal.”

“You know he’s not part of Pack Redmond, right?” I asked, setting the presents on the dining room table and turning to give him my full attention.

“Not yet. But he’s got the right vibe.” Rory hesitated, worrying his bottom lip before unleashing a verbal torrent. “Look, I don’t know what happened between you and Wyatt because I was a kid and didn’t pay attention to that kind of stuff, and I only ever heard bits and pieces about him growing up. So, consider me a blank slate. Very much in your corner, but without any preconceived notions. No oneevermentioned that he’s legitimately super handsome and super fucking jacked. Or that he’s gotthoseeyes. You’ve seen those eyes. Like, it’s unreal how blue they are. But he was nice and thoughtful, catering to his aunts’ whims… And he kept giving you thislook. All night. Like you—like he wasdyingto be with you.”

“Rory—”

“It’s just an observation!” The rascal flashed a cheeky grin before scampering away. He nearly tripped over the excess fabric pooling around his feet as he turned the corner at the top of the stairs.

Heaving a deep sigh, I warily eyed the gift bags. Rory had already jabbed at the wound Wyatt left on my heart, so I might as well go for broke.

I hooked a finger on the brim of the first gift bag and peered inside. Cat toys and treats galore.

The second bag was packed with work tote essentials: hand sanitizer, scent-neutralizing spray, quality lip balm, hand lotion, a nail file, a pack of gel pens, cat-shaped sticky notes, mints, stain removal wipes—the list went on and on. But what really caught my eye was the set of travel-size gourmet hot sauces.

So practical and perfectly tailored, it wasn’t necessary to read the gift tag—but I did anyway.

Thirty-two items you might wish for in a pinch. Happy Birthday. – W

Don’t get emotional. Donotget emotional. Repeating the mantra in my head, I carried the bags to my nest, fighting to maintain control.

Why get upset about a man who couldn’t even manage to look me in the eye at the housewarming? So what if his gifts were perfect? Beyond perfect. I didn’t need them. Didn’t need him. I needed someone I could trust.

Like Cal.

I dropped the bags on the console table, next to the red bag containing Wyatt’s earlier gifts and the cream cashmere sweater I’d accepted from Cal as his not-birthday present.

Irrefutable proof of encroaching distractions. No matter how thoughtful or endlessly kissable they were.

I had to be careful. Focused. Committed to my professional goals.

Because my fellowship hadn’t even reached the halfway point yet, and I was not looking to build an altar to futility in my wasteland of a nest.

It wasn’t until hours later, during the fifteen-minute reprieve between clinic appointments and radiology rotation, that I remembered the abandoned flowers on the dining room table. Rory had cannibalized my last iota of focus on our way out the door.

They were probably wilted by now, if not dead.

I bypassed the influx of birthday text messages to open my thread with Kelsey, ready to ask if she could rescue them—only to find she’d already sent a photo. The bouquet was perfectly arranged in a sleek vase, the red roses taking center stage.

Of course, she had.

Because she was Kelsey. Ever mindful, effortlessly creative, endlessly loyal, and the unflappable keeper of my sanity.

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