Her hands were shaking.
In their five years together, Darius had only bought her flowers twice—on her birthday and sometimes on Mother’s Day—and even that had been inconsistent.
“Do you like them?” he asked, peeking into the kitchen.
“Very much,” she replied, trimming the stems with scissors. “They’re beautiful.”
He stood in the doorway, his hands shoved into his jeans pockets, looking at her as if he wanted to say something, but he didn’t.
He just nodded and walked into the living room.
Kiana set the vase on the windowsill and wiped her hands on a dish towel.
Something was brewing.
She felt it in her skin, her nerves, that ancient female instinct that never lied.
By evening, Darius started asking questions.
They were sitting in the small eat‑in kitchen.
She was warming up dinner while he scrolled on his phone.
Suddenly, without looking up, he said,
“Hey, how much have you saved up for the renovation?”
Kiana froze with the ladle in her hand.
“Why do you ask?”
“Just curious. You wanted to redo the kitchen, right? Do you have enough money?”
She slowly ladled the soup into their bowls.
“Yes. I have enough.”
“You sure? Maybe it’s better to save a little more. Don’t rush it.”
Kiana sat across from him and picked up her spoon.
“Darius, I’ve been saving for three years. I have enough.”
He nodded, but it was clear her answer didn’t satisfy him.
He was expecting something else—numbers, maybe, specifics.
“And how much is there in total?” he asked, as if casually. “You know, in the account.”
She looked him straight in the eyes.
“Enough.”
He offered a tense, strained laugh.
“Okay, okay. If you don’t want to say, don’t. I just wanted to know in case you needed help.”
Help.
