at the corner of magnolia lane, where the pavement turns a little softer and the breeze smells faintly of sugar and roses, riki lives in a yellow house with a porch swing that creaks when the wind’s just right. he’s the tall boy who always carries his books tucked under one arm and waves at old ladies like he means it.

you see him most mornings, walking slow, hair a little messy, like he ran out of time or didn’t want to leave bed. you work at your grandmother’s flower shop just a few doors down — a little pastel dream with a bell that jingles sweetly when the door opens. your grandmother always says love blooms in flower shops if the tulips are trimmed just right.

riki shows up one wednesday afternoon. awkward, a little fidgety. he smells like laundry and peppermint, and he buys a single daisy.

“for my mom,” he says, but he looks at you like maybe he’s lying.

he starts coming in more often. not enough to be suspicious, just enough to notice. buys the wrong flowers for the wrong occasions, asks way too many questions about peonies, and always lingers a beat too long when you hand him the receipt.

your grandmother teases you when he leaves. calls him “the sweet boy from the end of the street.” you pretend to scoff, but your cheeks betray you.

one rainy afternoon, the bell above the shop jingles and there he is, holding a paper bag and looking shy.

“brought you something,” he says.

inside: lemon tarts and a little card that says for the prettiest flower in the shop.

you almost drop it. he panics.

“sorry—! that was cheesy, i didn’t mean—i just thought—”

but you’re laughing, and he’s turning red, and your grandmother’s suddenly very busy arranging carnations on the far end of the shop.

from then on, it’s different. riki walks you home after closing, holds the umbrella so it tilts more over you than him. tells you stories about his dog, his little sister, the time he got a bee stuck in his shirt and didn’t cry because someone was watching.

and one evening, when the sun sinks golden behind magnolia lane and your hands accidentally brush, he takes your fingers in his — warm and gentle like he’s afraid to scare you off — and says,

“you make everything feel softer. even the hard stuff.”

you don’t say anything. just squeeze his hand back.

later, under the porch light, with moths fluttering around like clumsy stars, riki leans in close. his voice is quiet, just a whisper.

“i really like you.”

and maybe you kiss him. or maybe you don’t. maybe you just smile and say,

“i know.”

either way, he grins like the luckiest boy on the street. and maybe he is.