It was raining just enough to be annoying.

Not enough to justify an umbrella, but enough to make Wilbur blink through mist and wipe his glasses every six steps. His jacket was damp. His hair was sticking to his forehead. His brain was fogged up from a day of pretending he was fine when he was very much not.

He wasn’t looking for anything. Not coffee. Not company. Definitely not whatever the universe was about to hit him with.

But then he saw you.

You were standing at a tiny street flower stall. One of those pop-up ones with mismatched buckets full of blooms and handwritten signs. A little crooked. A little rain-soaked. You were hunched under the awning, cheeks flushed from the cold, a soft yellow raincoat wrapped tight around your body. You held a bouquet of tulips in your arms like it was fragile. Sacred.

And you were smiling.

Not at anyone. Not for anyone. Just… smiling. Like the flowers were telling you a secret.

Wilbur’s feet stopped moving. His brain didn’t tell them to.

He stared.

You didn’t notice him. Or maybe you did. But you didn’t let it show. You just looked at the tulips in your hand and adjusted one of them gently—so softly it made his chest ache.

You looked like something out of a painting. Not the main subject. The quiet girl in the corner. The one who stayed in his mind.

And then, as if gravity was on your side, your gaze lifted. Met his.

Wilbur flinched.

You blinked. Tipped your head to the side. Then—without hesitation—walked forward. Right up to him.

He tensed like you might ask for directions. Or money. Or tell him he looked lost.

But instead, you reached out. And handed him a single tulip.

He stared at it. Then at you. Then back at it. Then at you again.

“I—” He cleared his throat. “Is this… for me?”

You just smiled.

Wilbur took it, awkward and reverent. Like you were handing him a key to a kingdom he hadn’t earned.

“…Did I die?” he asked quietly. “Is this heaven? Because you’re giving flowers to strangers and I feel like I’ve wandered into an emotionally delicate perfume commercial.”

Still, nothing from you. Not a word.

But you reached into your pocket, pulled out a crumpled paper receipt, and held it out to him.

He took it with both hands. Like it might vanish. And written across the back, in small, soft handwriting:

"This one’s for you. And so is this number." – 🌼

Wilbur looked up. You were already walking away.

You didn’t look back. Your raincoat swayed behind you like a gentle goodbye.

He stood there in the mist, holding a tulip and a phone number like they were spells.

“…Well,” he whispered. “Shit.”