He finds you just as the afternoon is beginning to cool, that hour when the sun starts slipping sideways and turns everything gold.

You’re crouched by the little back garden when his shadow stretches across the dirt like a slow eclipse.

When you finally stand and face him, you almost laugh—softly, fondly, the kind of laugh that curls warm in the chest. Because he’s holding something behind his back, and he’s doing that thing where he tries to look neutral but his huge shoulders have tensed into mountains of guilt.

“Hey, big guy,” you murmur, brushing soil off your palms. “What’d you do?”

He blinks; those strange, beautiful, mismatched eyes narrowing with confusion, like he can’t decide whether you’re teasing or genuinely accusing him of a felony.

“I did… nothing wrong,” he says, in that deep, gravel-soft voice. “I… hope.”

You grin. “Uh-huh. Bring it out.”

He hesitates. Shifts his weight. Then, very slowly he pulls the thing from behind his back. A bouquet of wildflowers. Or… well… something that once had the structural integrity of a bouquet.

Bright purple petals cling stubbornly to bent stems. Yellow blossoms droop like exhausted toddlers. A few white flowers are smashed flat, as though they did battle with an uncooperative hand. Grass has been included—accidentally, probably. And two tiny pine branches.

It is, in short, a mess. But it is the most earnest mess you’ve ever seen.

Your throat tightens, ridiculous and helpless.

He clears his throat, suddenly very shy. “People… give flowers. When they… care.” A beat. “So I am trying to be… people.”

You take the bouquet before he can apologize for its existence. The stems are damp. They smell like crushed green and the faint sweetness of spring. You cradle them like they’re something delicate, sacred.

“You absolute sweetheart,” you whisper. “You did this for me?”

His gaze drops to your shoes, as if eye contact is too dangerous. “I saw them. And I thought… you should have something… pretty.”‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎