You’d been visiting Italy with Copia for a few years now. A few weeks-long trip once or twice yearly. This was the first time you’d come during the Italian spring season, though.

Like America loved winter, Italy loved spring. It was incredibly festive, flowers covering nearly every wall and post on main street. Pinks, purples, pale blues, but most of all, yellow. You’d asked him about it early in the trip, and he’d given you the most adorable answer.

“At the start of spring,” he told you, “people exchange yellow flowers to celebrate. Usually, it’s between partners. Boyfriends, girlfriends, spouses.” He’d leaned in, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “I hope you’re not allergic to pollen, Carina.” Red. Bright red.

A few days passed, and you’d nearly forgotten about the conversation until you walked into the hotel room.

There were yellow rose petals everywhere, creating a path from the door all the way to the extravagant bed. On said bed, petals and whole flowers were arranged into a very suggestive heart. You giggled at the cheesiness of the gesture before you heard someone clearing their throat behind you.

“When I told them to put flowers in our room, I hadn’t expected this,” Copia says, a nervous smile on his face. He held a bouquet of yellow flowers himself, clearly intended for you. “Happy spring, mi amor.”