You’re still curled up on the couch when you hear the familiar sound of keys rattling in the door. It’s late, later than usual, and for a second, a little guilt creeps in about that frustrated, half-asleep text you sent earlier. Bad day. Everything’s gone wrong. Wish you were here.

The door creaks open, and there he is—Simon. He’s still in his uniform, boots heavy against the floor, shoulders tense like the day’s weight hasn’t quite let go of him yet. In his hands, a crinkling bouquet — wildflowers, messy and bright, clearly bought on a whim.

“You sounded like you could use something pretty,” he says, crossing the room to you. His voice is low, a little rough from the long day, but full of something warmer, something that makes your chest tighten.