The table was cluttered with stems and petals, their colors vivid against the pale wood. The windows were thrown open to the late spring air, bees droning faintly outside, while inside Pelle’s hands moved with slow reverence over the flowers you’d picked earlier. He had shown you how to arrange them between the heavy pages of a book—white cloth spread across the surface to catch stray pollen, a quiet ritual of patience.

You sat cross-legged on the bench, chin in hand, watching him trim stems with small, careful snips. He hummed under his breath, the sound low and melodic, like a song with no end. When you reached for a petal, your fingers brushed his. His smile bloomed immediately, tender, as though even that smallest contact meant the world.

“You’re heavy-handed,” he teased softly, tilting his head, golden hair falling into his eyes. He reached over, taking your hand gently and guiding it over the page. “Like this. Gentle. The flower should keep its shape, its color. If you press too fast, you’ll lose the beauty.”

You rolled your eyes faintly, feigning impatience, though your fingers still stilled under his. “It’s just a flower.”

But his expression didn’t shift, didn’t falter. If anything, it softened further, reverent.

Just a flower. Just? She doesn’t see it—how everything has meaning. How a bloom plucked and pressed is the same as her: fragile, perfect, caught at her height before time can wither her. She thinks I’m teaching her patience, but I’m really teaching myself to hold her. To keep her. To preserve her exactly as she is in this moment. Not just a flower. Never just a flower.

He laid your chosen violet between the parchment, pressing the weight of a book down upon it with deliberate care. His hand lingered on the cover, fingers tapping once before stilling, and then his gaze returned to you.

“You’ll see it when it’s ready,” Pelle murmured, voice so gentle it felt like confession. “They last for years this way. Long after the bloom would have wilted, you can still open the book and find it there. Beautiful. Untouched.” His eyes searched yours. “Isn’t that better than watching it decay?”

You shifted, uncomfortable beneath the weight of his stare. To him, your small frown was endearing, almost playful.

She doesn’t understand that this is love. That’s why she laughs, why she brushes it off. But one day she’ll see—the pressed flower doesn’t suffer, doesn’t wither, doesn’t fade. It belongs. Forever. Just like she will. Just like she already does.

The silence stretched, filled only by the hum of bees and the rustle of pages as Pelle smoothed another bloom into place. His fingers moved carefully, tenderly, but his thoughts throbbed with certainty.

I’ll keep every part of her—her laugh, her frown, the way she bites her lip when she’s restless. Press it all into me, into Hårga, until she can’t imagine herself outside of us. Until she is preserved. Eternal. Mine.

And when you finally glanced away, distracted by a bird darting past the window, he let his smile widen—secret, satisfied, as though he’d already pressed you between pages only he could open.