The bell above your flower shop chimed softly, breaking the quiet rhythm of your morning. You barely looked up from the bouquet you were arranging when someone stepped in, holding a wrapped arrangement of golden windwheel asters and cecilias—flowers rarely seen together.

—“Delivery for you,” the courier smiled. “From… Lumine.”

Your heart skipped.

Lumine? You hadn’t spoken in weeks—not since that moment when your fingers brushed while you helped her replant something in Sumeru, and neither of you said a word about it. She hadn’t messaged, hadn’t returned. And now, this?

You took the bouquet, your breath catching on the soft fragrance. There was a tiny note tucked inside: “To someone brighter than any field of cecilias. - L”

That was definitely her handwriting… or at least, it looked like it.

Moments later, the bell rang again. Lumine stepped into the shop.

Her eyes locked with yours, then immediately flicked to the bouquet in your hands. A faint, almost horrified expression crossed her face.

—“You got them,” she said.

—“So it was you?” you asked, voice quiet, unsure.

—“I… no—well, not exactly,” she stammered. “I didn’t send them. Scaramouche did. As a joke.”

Silence.

—“I was going to stop him, but then… I didn’t,” she admitted, cheeks slightly flushed. “I didn’t know how to say it after.”