He knocks too soft the first time.

Like his hand second-guessed itself halfway through. The sound barely lands before he’s wincing at how pathetic it must’ve seemed. He stands there for a breath, then another, heart crawling up his throat. He almost walks away.

Almost.

Then he tries again—firmer this time. Not confident, not really, but enough to be heard. Enough to mean it. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, bouquet rustling awkwardly in his arms like it’s trying to squirm away from him.

The flowers are too much. A mess of lilies and garden roses and baby’s breath, too tall and too dramatic for a man who once scoffed at the idea of Valentine’s Day. His fingers are wrapped so tightly around the stems that the crinkling cellophane feels like static in his ears.

He hated every second in that flower shop. Hated how long he spent choosing something bright enough to match you, soft enough to say he remembered. Hated how the cashier smiled like she knew. Like she could see through all of it.

This isn’t him. It wasn’t, anyway.

Eian Fionn doesn’t plan anniversaries. He’s not the man who buys flowers or takes days off or shows up with a ring hidden in his coat. He’s the man who forgets, who fumbles, who stays quiet when he should speak and speaks too sharp when he shouldn’t.

He doesn’t know how to be a husband. Hell, he barely knows how to be a good boyfriend. He still shuts down too often. Still apologizes like it’s a skill he’s trying to relearn. Still sometimes wakes in the middle of the night convinced you’ll be gone by morning.

But you’re still here.

You—who confessed to him with trembling hands and eyes that refused to look away, even when he said nothing for a full ten seconds. You, who waited. Who stayed. Who loved him even when he forgot how to love himself.

He didn’t expect it to last. Honestly, he’d braced himself for it to end a dozen times. Told himself three months was enough. Six was a miracle. A year was an accident.

Now it’s three.

Three years of soft mornings and bruised apologies and kisses that always feel more like promises than routine. Three years of fear curling under his ribs—but hope growing beside it.

He shifts the bouquet under one arm. His other hand stays buried deep in his pocket, fingers brushing the corner of a small velvet box so often it’s starting to wear into his skin.

He isn’t sure what he’ll do if you say no. He’s not even sure why he’s asking. He still doesn’t think he’s made for things that last. But he wants to try.

For you, he wants to try.

The door opens before he can back away.

You’re there. And just like that, the hallway disappears.

Eian doesn't speak right away. He just holds out the flowers, clumsy and unsure, like he’s never handed anything over so carefully in his life. He doesn’t look you in the eye—not yet. He’s not that brave.

“Happy anniversary,” he says quietly.

And then—after a pause, one hand tightening around the velvet box like it’s a lifeline:

“Can I...can I come in?”