It all starts with a red rose.
(Happy Valentine's Day, Prue.)
He places it on her desk.
Red petals, more vibrant than the hot red of blood.
(Have dinner with me?)
She smiles for the first time in days.
She never has been able to resist his boyish charm and thousand megawatt grin.
(Sure. I'd love to.)
He picks her up at eight.
His tux is crisp; her dress, slinky and emerald green.
There are roses in the centre of their table.
(Did you plan this?)
He shakes his head, no; the roses are just a happy coincidence.
He drives her home and walks her in, his hand on the small of her back.