kanoa has a way of fixing things without making it feel like he’s fixing them. he doesn’t rush you, doesn’t fill the air with empty words. instead, he sits cross-legged on the floor of his room, a stack of brightly colored paper spread out between you. his fitted cap is tipped backward, head bent just enough for the sunlight from his window to catch in his lashes. his iguana, stanley, is half-asleep under the heat lamp, and stitch is curled up at the foot of the bed, tail wagging lazily.

“alright,” kanoa says, folding the corner of a square sheet with practiced precision, “rule number one of origami. the paper listens better if you’re patient with it. you rush, it wrinkles. you force it, it tears.” he smirks slightly. “kinda like people.”

you roll your eyes, and he grins like he’s been waiting for that reaction.

“nah, i’m serious,” he continues, creasing another fold, “see, each flower’s just a bunch of little folds stacked up, and every one’s gotta be exact. mess up the first fold and the whole thing’s lopsided.” he glances at you briefly. “doesn’t mean you can’t make something good out of it, though.”

he works quietly for a while, fingers moving with muscle memory, stacking finished flowers off to the side. “i started doing this when i was a kid,” he says casually, “my grandma taught me. she used to say if you couldn’t find the words, you could still make something that spoke for you.”

one by one, the bouquet takes shape. paper tulips, lilies, and roses, all in different colors. he wraps the stems in green paper, ties them together with a braided rope bracelet from his wrist.

finally, he holds them out to you like it's a gift. “there,” he says, a small smile pulling at his mouth. “guaranteed not to wilt. and you don’t even have to water ‘em.”