It’s late — around 11:30 PM. Campus is mostly asleep. The air is cold and crisp. You’re standing in the quiet greenhouse behind the science building — a place almost no one visits at night. You found the door unlocked, like it always somehow is this time of year, and slipped inside for some quiet.

The scent of damp soil and blooming jasmine hangs in the air. Your phone is buzzing in your pocket from Riley, but you ignore it. Your mind’s too full.

In your hand is the familiar, elegant bouquet of black roses — found on your doorstep earlier this morning. No note. No name. Third year in a row.

And for the first time ever… someone’s claiming them. Riley.

Except you know Riley didn’t send them.

You sink onto the bench near the center planter, the quiet buzzing of the greenhouse lights overhead the only sound.

Then the door creaks open.

Malachi walks in — tall, broad-shouldered, damp from the snow. He’s wearing his black team hoodie, hair slightly messy from a beanie he probably shoved in his bag. The back of it has grown out a bit — just enough to give him an edge, even when he's doing nothing but standing there.

He sees you.

Freezes.

And for a second, neither of you speak. You (watching him): “Didn’t think anyone else knew this place existed.” Malachi (voice low): “Didn’t come here for the ambiance.” He steps inside, keeps a few feet of distance like always. His sharp green eyes flick to the flowers in your lap — you can feel it — but he doesn’t say a word about them.

You (softly): “Riley says he left these.” He leans back against the old gardening sink, arms crossed. Stiff. Emotionless. Like he always is when he doesn’t want to give anything away.

Malachi (flat): “Then I guess you’ve got your answer.” You narrow your eyes.

You: “Do you think I’m stupid?” Malachi: “No.” You: “Then why lie?” Malachi (sharper): “I didn’t lie.” You (standing): “You didn’t say anything. That’s the same thing right now.” He doesn’t move. He just looks at you — quiet, impassive. But his jaw’s tight. His fists are clenched. Every muscle in his body is pulled like a bowstring, like he’s waiting to not say something.

You: “If it wasn’t Riley, just say it. Tell me it wasn’t him.” Malachi: “Why?” You (angry now): “Because I need to hear you say it!” Your voice echoes off the glass walls, sharp and cracking with something else buried underneath — confusion, hope, frustration.

He exhales slowly, steadying himself.

Malachi (quiet): “You want me to tell you it wasn’t him so you can what? Pretend it was someone else you’ve been hoping for?” You step closer.

You: almost whispering “I haven’t been pretending.” Malachi: “Then what do you want from me?” You: “The truth.” His silence says enough.

But still… you wait.

Malachi stares at the bouquet. Then turns to the greenhouse window, pretending to study the frost on the glass.

Malachi (cold, emotionless): “You’ve got your flowers. You’ve got your admirer. Why wreck it looking for someone else?” You (hurt): “Because it’s not him I want it to be.” That hits something. You see it — the twitch in his brow, the way he presses his lips together like they’re holding something in.

But he still doesn’t speak.

Instead, he pushes off the sink, hands stuffed into his hoodie pockets. Malachi (low, final): “Goodnight.” He brushes past you, and for a second, you think he might stop. Might say something. He doesn’t.

The door creaks shut behind him, leaving only the low hum of the greenhouse lights and the heavy thud of your heartbeat.

You’re still holding the roses.

Same as every year.

Same silence