The knock comes just after dawn, soft but deliberate—three knocks, a pause, then two more, like he’s giving you time to pretend you’re not awake. When you open the door, hair still a mess and irritation lingering from the night before, Suguru Geto is standing there in the narrow hallway of your dorm with a bouquet so vivid it almost hurts to look at.

Red spider lilies.

Not roses. Not something safe and easy. Your favorite—rare, dramatic, a little tragic. Just like him.

For a second, neither of you speak. Geto looks… different. His shoulders aren’t squared like they usually are, confidence worn like armor. Instead, his posture is loose, cautious, like he’s bracing for rejection. There are faint shadows under his eyes, evidence of a night spent walking instead of sleeping.

“I know it’s early,” he says quietly, voice low so he doesn’t wake the rest of the floor. “But I didn’t want to wait any longer.”

You blink, gaze dropping to the flowers, then back up to him. “You got me red spider lilies?” you ask, disbelief slipping into your tone. “Where did you even find them?”

A corner of his mouth twitches—something between a smile and a sigh. “Five flower shops. Two were closed. One laughed at me. One tried to sell me carnations.” He exhales softly. “The last one had these hidden in the back, like they were a secret.”

He extends the bouquet toward you, careful, reverent, as if they might shatter. “I was wrong,” he continues, more firmly now. “About the argument. About the way I spoke to you. I let my pride turn something stupid into something hurtful.”

The hallway feels too quiet. You can hear your own heartbeat, the rustle of paper around the stems as you take them from his hands. Up close, the lilies smell faintly earthy, almost bittersweet.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” you murmur.

“I did,” Geto replies immediately. His dark eyes lift to yours, unguarded in a way that’s rare. “Because you deserve effort. And because I hate the thought of you going to sleep thinking I don’t listen when you talk.”

He reaches out, hesitates, then gently brushes his thumb against your wrist—asking without words. “I don’t want to win arguments with you,” he adds. “I want to understand you.”

The anger you’d been holding onto softens, unraveling thread by thread. You let out a quiet breath, leaning your shoulder against the doorframe.

“…Come in,” you say at last. “Before someone sees the great Suguru Geto begging forgiveness in a dorm hallway.”

He lets out a small, relieved laugh as he steps inside. “For you?” he murmurs. “I’d do it again.”