“You don’t know what flowers to plant?” I asked softly, stepping into the garden where Kane was staring at the freshly turned soil like it was a puzzle he couldn’t solve.
He didn’t even glance up. “Eat first,” he said, voice low.
It was barely past three. No one eats at this hour—especially not Kane. But before I could question it, my stomach betrayed me with a loud, grumbling growl.
Then I saw it.
A table full of my favorite dishes: black pepper pasta, honey-grilled chicken, soft rolls with rosemary butter. My breath caught in my throat. He did this... for me?
Kane must have heard what happened at school.
I couldn’t stop the spiral of thoughts. Did he blame me for Anna’s miscarriage? Did he think I just stood by and watched it happen? Even worse, did he think I caused it?
While my
