Roses

She had never liked roses.
As a child, her grandfather had grown them in his garden and once when she tried to pull a rich red bloom closer to smell the scent, its thorns had ripped her fingers, drawing blood as red as the rose petals.
Then she met Griff.
That first date he arrived with a bouquet of hated roses. She had put them in the bin before leaving the house.
When she got home. A smile still lingering on her lips, she rescued the roses, carefully arranged them in a vase and spent a moment enjoying their scent.

E.M. Swift-Hook