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faint wet footprint on the floor. "I know," he said, his voice a little rough. "I am a walking disaster. I probably shouldn't have come in here looking like a drowned rat, but I couldn't wait another minute." Clara didn't move. She felt a mixture of relief and panic. "What are you doing here?" Mark looked down at the flowers, then back at her. A small, self-deprecating smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I think I've reached my limit for silence. It turns out that I am remarkably bad at being quiet when there is something important to say." He walked toward the desk, his boots squeaking slightly on the linoleum. When he reached her, he held out the flowers. They were a cheerful, defiant yellow in the dim light of the library. "These are for you," he said. "They are supposed to be symbols of adoration, or at least that is what the florist told me when I ran in there looking frantic. But mostly, they are just a very clumsy way of saying I am sorry." Clara took the bouquet, her fingers brushing against his cold, damp hand. She felt a jolt of warmth that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room. "Sorry for what, exactly?" Mark sighed, running a hand through his damp hair. "For being an idiot. For not realizing that you might have seen me with Elena and misunderstood the situation. I should have been clearer. I should have told you that she is just a colleague, a part of a project that finished months ago, and that the only person I have been thinking about for the last few weeks is you." Clara looked down at the sunflowers. She felt a lump forming in her throat. "I thought… I thought you were moving on. Or that I was just a temporary distraction while you navigated your old life." "You were never a distraction," Mark said firmly. He leaned against the edge of the desk, looking at her with an intensity that made her breath hitch. "You were the only thing that made sense in a very busy, very chaotic few months. When I met you, I realized I had been living my life in black and white. You brought in all the color. I was scared to say it because I didn't want to ruin what we had, but the silence was worse than the fear." Clara leaned against the other side of the desk, feeling the tension that had been coiled in her chest for days finally begin to unravel. "I was scared too," she admitted, her voice low. "I’m used to things being orderly. I like my books on the shelves in their proper place. You… you make me feel like I’m standing on a ledge, and I’m not sure if I’m going to fall or fly." Mark chuckled, a soft, genuine sound that echoed in the quiet space. "I think we can manage to do both. We can be a little messy together. We can spill lattes and deal with bad dinners and get caught in the rain." He gestured toward the window, where the rain was still lashing against the glass. "I didn't have a grand plan. I didn't have a speech written out. I just knew that I couldn't spend another night wondering if I had lost the best thing that ever happened to me because I was too proud to explain myself." Clara looked at him, really looked at him. She saw the sincerity in his eyes, the way he was willing to