The flower vendor’s eyes widen when I approach him and tell him to make me a bouquet with every flower he’s got. Roses, lilies, marigolds, daisies—he looks at me like I’ve lost it but starts putting it together anyway. Within five minutes, I’m carrying the most chaotic, colorful mess of petals and stems I’ve ever seen.
I knock on her window with it. She stares, blinks twice, and rolls it down.
“What—what is that?”
I rub my neck, feeling a bit embarrassed, saying it out loud, “I have never given anyone flowers, so I didn’t know which one to pick.” I look at her to see if she’s smiling or about to laugh at me.
She’s not doing either. She just looks at me.
And then at the bouquet.
And then back at me.
And for a second, I think maybe I’ve overdone it. That it’s too much. That I should’ve just bought her a damn cold coffee like a normal person.
But then she reaches out—slow, hesitant—and takes the bouquet from my hands. Her fingers brush mine, and I swear something in my chest shifts. Like she’s rearranging parts of me just by touching me.
She sets the bouquet gently on her lap, still not saying a word. Then she glances up, and finally, there’s that small smile—the one she tries to hide but always fails.
I get back in the car and shut the door, clearing my throat like it’s nothing. Like I didn’t just do something completely uncharacteristic in the middle of a weekday traffic jam.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she says, voice quieter now. Almost… tender.
I start the engine again. “I know.”
Her fingers are grazing the petals now, playing with the edge of a sunflower like it might crumble if she holds it too tight. “So why did you?”
I glance at her, and the words leave before I can stop them. “Because you looked like you needed something good today.”
She doesn’t respond right away. Just leans back in the seat, hugging the flowers a little closer to her chest like they’re made of gold.
We drive in silence for a few minutes. But it’s not the heavy kind. It’s soft. Comfortable. The kind that says more than conversation can.
She breaks it with a huff of a laugh.
“What?” I ask.
“These look insane,” she says, nodding down at the bouquet. “Like a kindergarten art project gone wrong.”
I chuckle. “You’re not wrong.”
“But I love them,” she adds quickly, looking at me. “It’s kind of… perfect.”
There’s something about the way she says it that gets to me. Like she doesn’t get flowers often. Like no one’s ever paused at a traffic light and thought of her.
And it kills me a little.
She deserves more than chaos and deadlines. More than long hours and my impossible standards. She deserves flowers on random days and her favorite food at lunch. She deserves to be thought of, considered, and cared for—even if she’s too stubborn to ask for it.
We stop at another red light. I glance at her again.
“Are you free tomorrow evening?” I ask casually.
She narrows her eyes. “Why?”
“No reason,” I lie.
“You’re terrible at lying.”
