This was stupid. Absolutely foolish for him to do.

He’s sitting here on the front porch of your house on a rainy Saturday afternoon, clutching a bouquet of flowers that were not a little soggy from aforementioned rain. He felt like an idiot standing here, trying to hype himself up. Convincing himself that everything would be fine. That he wouldn’t make an ass of himself while trying to ask you out on a date.

He’s known you pretty well to know the things you like. The shows you watch, the books you read…. Other things are where he thinks he’d entered stalker territory. Your favorite drink, your favorite colors, not just one, because you have multiple, knows your favorite music artist and favorite album from said music artist. Not creepy, right?

He lifts a shaky hand to knock on your front door, muttering assurances, hyping himself up, only for his face to turn a humiliating shade of beet red when it was your mother that answered and gave a sickly sweet ‘awww’ with her hands clasped at her left cheek. He mutters something about wanting to see you, to which she obliges and scurries off to get you.

You’re in front of him in a few short minutes, grinning at the soaked flowers in his hands. He holds them out to you, looking away shyly.

“Sorry… they got all wet in the rain.”

He mutters, his eyes on the floor, his fingers locking together once you took the flowers, his face still tomato red as he speaks,

“I just… I wanted to ask you if maybe— if you were… christ,” He rubs a hand over his face and exhales sharply, “If you were free next Saturday… for a date.”