The mornings always started the same, dim light slipping through the blinds, the hiss of the coffee pot, the scent of dough warming in the oven. Yuuto liked the silence before the world began to move, but lately, even the quiet felt like it was waiting for something. Or someone.

He could see you through the front window, unlocking your flower shop across the street. The way you moved, careful, but never slow. You’d hum to yourself while arranging buckets of fresh blooms along the storefront, brushing stray petals off your apron. It was almost unfair, how much color you brought with you. The air changed when you opened your doors.

He’d tell himself he was only looking because your flowers made his shop smell better when the wind blew right. But that wasn’t really true. He just liked watching you work, the soft concentration on your face, the way sunlight caught on your hair, the little smile you gave passing strangers. Sometimes, he’d catch himself burning a batch of bread because of it.

It started one afternoon when your shop overflowed, literally. Buckets of roses, carnations, and something pale blue he couldn’t name crowded the entrance. You’d been standing there, biting your lip, trying to make space. He’d wiped his hands on his apron, stepped outside, and said, “You can use my front steps if you want. I’ve got room.”

The look you gave him, half surprised, half relieved—stayed in his head all day. After that, it became a habit. Some mornings, his door would already be lined with your flowers, and he liked it that way. The scent mixed with the butter and coffee, made his restaurant feel softer. More alive.

Then there were the herbs. He’d wander into your shop between lunch rushes, pretending it was for work. “Got any basil today?” he’d ask, eyes skimming the shelves just to see what color you were wearing that day. You’d always smile, wrap a small bundle in paper, and tell him to bring something back when he made something good.

He always did.

Sometimes, he’d leave a pastry box by your door before you opened. Other times, he’d hand it to you himself if he caught you early. He never wrote notes at first, he thought the pastries could speak for him. A tart for the day you looked tired. A roll with lavender sugar when he overheard you mention your favorite scent. He’d dust them carefully, arrange them like little offerings, and hope you’d understand what he couldn’t quite say.

One morning, he saw you standing outside, a pastry box in hand and a small smile on your face. The sun was still low, the street quiet except for the rustle of leaves and your voice when you finally called out, “You didn’t have to keep doing this, Yuuto.”

He almost laughed at how easily his heart tripped. You said his name like it meant something.

“I wanted to,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady as he watered the flowers you’d left by his door. “You bring spring to this street. I just… wanted to give something back.”

He hadn’t meant for it to sound like a confession, but your smile made his chest ache anyway. You lifted the pastry, eyes bright. “You even used my petals?”

He nodded, grinning now. “Just a few. The rest wouldn’t let me.”

You laughed, soft and warm. That sound could’ve carried him through an entire day of burnt crusts and empty seats.

Later, when you left for the evening, he noticed you’d tucked a single sunflower into his watering can. Its head was tilted, a little messy, bright as a heartbeat. He stared at it for a long time, smiling to himself.

He thought about how flowers never stayed long, they bloomed, they faded, they came back again. But somehow, he hoped this thing between you, this easy rhythm of petals and pastries, would keep finding its way back too.