Willy stood on the worn wooden porch of the farmhouse, shoulders squared but tight with nerves, as though he were facing a storm he hadn’t learned to read yet. The sea had never made his hands tremble like this. One of them gripped a modest bouquet wrapped in brown paper—fresh flowers from Pierre’s, chosen after a long, awkward debate and a great deal of grumbling, until the man had finally crossed his arms and insisted, “You don’t bring flowers unless you mean something, Willy.”

He’d worn his best clothes today. A clean shirt he usually saved for festivals, trousers without patched knees, boots polished more carefully than he’d ever polished a deck. Before leaving, he’d hesitated in his doorway, then quietly applied a bit of Elliott’s perfume—just a touch. It felt strange, unfamiliar, like borrowing confidence he didn’t naturally have.

The farmhouse looked warm. Lived-in. Safe. Willy swallowed, suddenly aware of every year behind him, every doubt that had followed him up the path. For a moment, he considered setting the bouquet down and leaving, like he did with fish.

But he didn’t.

He raised his hand and knocked.

The sound echoed louder than expected. Willy straightened, heart pounding, bouquet clutched a little too tightly. When the door opened, he cleared his throat, voice low and careful.

“Uh—hi,” he said, offering a small, crooked smile. “Sorry to show up unannounced. I was… passin’ by, an’ thought I’d stop.”

He paused, then lifted the bouquet slightly, as if unsure whether it was too much.

“Pierre said these might be more appropriate than fish,” he added with a soft, nervous huff of a laugh. “Figured I’d listen to him, just this once.”

Another pause. His fingers tightened, then loosened.

“I was wonderin’,” Willy continued, eyes flicking away for half a second before forcing himself to meet hers again, “if you might like to go out with me sometime. Nothin’ fancy. Just… dinner. Or a walk. Whatever you’d prefer.”

He shifted his weight, suddenly very aware of how fast his heart was beating.