𝐑𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐬 (𝐓𝐞𝐰𝐤𝐞𝐬𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐲 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫)

𝐓𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐯𝐞

                     ✿ [Y/N] POV ✿

Tewkesbury pulls away from kissing me and I rest my hands on his shoulders and he looks me in eyes as he speaks, "I don't see you looking very convinced with the decision you've just decided to take."

  I shake my head no, "No, no it's not that it's just I don't think it'll be easy to run away."

  "[Y/N], nothing is easy in life."

   "I know that the only thing that we're missing is some money but I promise I can get it." He tells me, determination in his voice and an idea comes in my head.

"I have a piece of land that my aunt Mary gave me before dying, I can sell it. I even have someone who's interested in buying in it." I said, remembering Lorenzo.

  Tewkesbury shook his head, "How are you going to sell a land that's yours. No, I can't let you do that."

He reaches into his coat pocket and draws out a single red rose—vivid, delicate, and impossibly perfect. Silently, he holds it out to me, the petals trembling slightly in the breeze.

I glance up at him, puzzled, meeting the warmth in his eyes.

"Do you remember the first day we met?" he asks softly. "At the flower market?"

His hand lifts, and he traces his index finger gently along my chin, coaxing a memory—and a smile—from me. I nod, heart warming at the thought. That day had felt like something out of a dream.

"When I saw you, I thought you were the most beautiful girl I'd ever laid eyes on. I still do." His palm cradles my cheek, and I lean into his touch instinctively, feeling the quiet thrum of his affection.

"You, my love," he murmurs, "are the reason I wake each morning with purpose. When I look at you, I see light. I see kindness. I see the most angelic, radiant girl."

His fingers trace a slow, reverent path down my face—brushing over my lips, then the slope of my nose—as if memorizing every feature anew.

"Your laugh, your boldness, the way you carry yourself with such strength... You enchant me." He glances down at the rose in his other hand and lifts it slightly, a smile ghosting across his lips. "Do you remember what a rose symbolizes?"

I begin to nod, the meaning clicking into place before I even speak. "Love," I whisper. "Passion. Admiration."

His smile deepens, and he leans in to kiss me—just a soft, fleeting brush of his lips on mine, but it leaves my heart fluttering.

He offers the rose again.

And this time, I understand completely.

He's telling me he loves me. Without needing to say the words.

"Your offering me a rose?" I asks, a hint of shock and awe in my voice and he nods, smiling.

"Aren't roses a way of saying I love you?"