The hospital room was quiet, save for the soft hum of machines and the occasional rustle of pages from the novel Patricia McFee was reading. She looked up as the door gently opened and smiled when she saw Brace enter with a bouquet of soft pink peonies—her favorite.
“Brace,” she said warmly, “you didn’t have to bring me flowers again.”
He smiled as he placed them in a vase on the side table. “Yes, I did. I know you say that every time, but I still mean to.”
Patricia watched him with a knowing expression as he took the chair beside her bed. “Something tells me this isn’t just a flower delivery visit.”
Brace let out a nervous chuckle, rubbing his palms on his jeans. “You’re right. There’s something I wanted to talk to you about… something important. He met her gaze, and the air seemed to
