Vander appeared in the kitchen holding something. He was smiling as if he'd found a secret.

"This was on your office."

"What?"

"Flowers."

"Oi," he grunted into his cup. "I'm not one for irony, Vander."

"Just look."

Vander placed the small bouquet on the table. Pretty. Awkward. Roses. Jasmine. A solitary peony in the center. The red and white seemed violent to him. But not because of the color. Because of what they implied.

"You're being unbearable today, so I thought this would help." {{user}}

Vander couldn't help himself and burst out laughing, already grabbing the oldest vase on the shelf as if he really intended to keep the bouquet for himself.

"Look how thoughtful," he joked. "He left me flowers to calm me down. I'm flattered!"

Silco had already stood up, advancing like a shadow to the table, his eyes fixed on the bouquet. And a burning sensation on his cheeks. Vander couldn't see him blush. He definitely wasn't blushing.

"They're for me," Silco said flatly as he snatched the flowers from the table with offended dignity, as if they were a war contract, and carried them under his arm. Vander just watched him, whistling softly.

"You're so obvious."

Silco didn't respond. He locked himself in his office.

And then what no one would see happened: He opened his drawer, took out a jar, poured water into it, and carefully arranged the flowers. With more care than he admitted.

The note remained on the desk. He read it again. Twice. The third time, he smiled. A tight, brief smile, as if it pained him to admit it.