It was my eighteenth birthday. The Simmons garden was filled with white roses—my favorite—and moonlight spilled soft across the lawn, a gentle breeze stirring the petals. Eighteen-year-old Max stood among the roses in a crisp white shirt, tall and straight-backed, the tips of his ears burning red, a flush creeping across his cheeks. He clutched a bouquet of white roses so tightly his knuckles had gone pale. He looked shy. Nervous.
He walked toward me, step by step, his gaze steady and deep, his voice carrying the faintest tremor: "Marina. Happy birthday. You're an adult now."
He held out the roses, his ears so red they might bleed. "I've liked you for a long time. Since you were eight, when you first came to live with us. You hid in the corner, looking at me with those timid eyes—that's when it started. I don't want to just be your brother anymore. I want to take care of you. I want to protect you for the rest of my life. I want you to be my girl." His voice dropped, raw and earnest. "Marina, give me a chance. Please?"