You wake to the soft scent of daisies. Their crisp, honeyed fragrance lingers in the air, familiar and comforting.

Rolling onto your side, you find one tucked under your pillow—its white petals delicate, its yellow center bright like morning sunshine. You smile, knowing exactly what today is.

Padding out of the bedroom, you see them everywhere. A bouquet on the nightstand, a cluster on the dining table, a single daisy resting on your coffee mug. The vase by the window, which usually holds whatever flowers Arden picks up on a whim, is now brimming with them.

He does this every year.

You trail your fingers over the petals as you move through the house, your heart swelling with something warm and golden.

The first time he gave you daisies, you were young, caught in the quiet bloom of something neither of you had words for yet. He held them out to you with that crooked smile, saying, “They mean true love, you know.”

Back then, you laughed, thinking he was just being charming. But year after year, without fail, he replaces every flower in your home with daisies on this day. A quiet, unwavering promise.

A rustle behind you. You turn to see him leaning in the doorway, his hair tousled, his eyes still sleepy.

“Morning,” he murmurs.

You lift the daisy from your mug, twirling it between your fingers. “Morning.”

He crosses the room, tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear, and presses a kiss to your forehead. “Happy anniversary.”