You didn’t plan it. Not really. The idea had come to you during the hike—simple, spontaneous, something soft to hold onto in a place that rarely gave anyone room to breathe. You’d seen the flowers on the trail’s edge—just wild ones, scattered in between the brush. And without thinking, you picked a few. No ribbon. No vase. Just your hand curled gently around a small, uneven bouquet. Something real. Something warm. Something... Scott wouldn’t know how to refuse.

You found him behind the old storage building, where he always went when he didn’t want to be seen. He was sitting on the low step, knees drawn up, hood half over his head, fingers tapping restlessly against his thigh like they were trying to say something his mouth wouldn’t. He didn’t notice you at first—not until your shadow stretched over his sneakers. Then he looked up, expecting a scolding or another adult with another lecture.

But instead, you held out the flowers.

No words. No explanation. Just offered them like a peace treaty he didn’t remember asking for.

He blinked. Slowly. Looked at the flowers. Then at you. Then at the flowers again. His lips parted slightly, like he was about to speak, but nothing came out. He didn’t reach for them. Not right away. Just stared. Eyes narrowing like you’d handed him something foreign. Something dangerous. Something beautiful.

“Are those... for me?”

You nodded quietly. And he exhaled a breath that sounded like disbelief.

“I don’t—” He paused. “I don’t know what to do with beautiful things.”

The words weren’t bitter. Just honest. And when he finally took the bouquet from your hand, his fingers were careful. Gentle. Like he was afraid he might ruin them just by touching them. He held the flowers like they might fall apart in his grasp—and maybe that’s what he was afraid of. That things like this, like you, weren’t meant to last.