The Flower That Grew from Ashes novel Chapter 179

"Come in first."

Annelise hesitated for a fraction of a second before following him inside the warm, brightly lit building.

"Lost your keys?" Yves asked after pressing the elevator button, eyeing her drenched, snow-covered appearance.

Annelise nodded, feeling a bit embarrassed.

"Yeah. I think I dropped them at the floral market."

The elevator doors opened. Yves didn't press the button for the second floor where he lived; instead, he directly pressed for the third floor.

"Come upstairs and warm up first," he said.

This was the very first time Annelise had stepped inside Yves' personal space.

His studio took up the entire top-floor loft, forming a massive open-concept layout.

It was completely contradictory to his usual sharp, immaculate personal image.

The space was huge, but wonderfully chaotic.

Right in the center of the room sat a gigantic oak drafting table that took up nearly a third of the floor plan.

The desk was cluttered with architectural models, half-finished blueprints, various types of pencils, and several half-empty coffee mugs that looked like they'd been there for days.

The bookshelves lining the walls were crammed with heavy, brick-like architectural and design volumes.

A few open issues of the latest architectural magazines were tossed haphazardly onto a cozy-looking dark gray fabric sofa.

The only thing that seemed remotely orderly was a framed watercolor painting of Oslo's Old Town hanging perfectly straight on the wall.

The entire loft smelled incredible—a rich blend of aged wood, thick paper, and dark roasted coffee.

"Have a seat anywhere," Yves offered, pointing toward the only armchair that wasn't covered in papers, before turning to walk into the small open kitchen.

A moment later, he brought out a steaming hot drink and set it on the table in front of her.

"Drink something warm. Thaw yourself out."

Then he pulled out his phone and, without rushing, began contacting a locksmith service right in front of her.

Speaking in fluent Norwegian, he clearly described the lock model on Annelise's door to the operator and confirmed the technician's arrival time and the quoted price.

There was something remarkably grounding and efficient about the way he handled problems.

During the agonizing thirty-minute wait for the locksmith to arrive, they chatted about trivial things.

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