The flower on his desk had begun to wilt.

Izuku noticed it in the middle of paperwork, a soft pang tugging at his chest the moment he saw the droop of its petals. It was small, just a single daisy in a thin white vase, but it wasn’t just decoration. It was his reminder. His signal.

He stared at it for a moment, pen hovering mid-signature, before he exhaled and stood up. The flower never lied. You’d need a new bouquet.

You’d told him, once—no, more like offhandedly confessed during one of those quiet, late-night talks while curled up under a shared blanket—that you adored flowers. Not just liked. Adored. Ever since then, there had always been some in the house. Big ones, small ones, store-bought or stolen from the side of the road when he was short on time. You never let a single one go to waste. Every bouquet he gave you ended up dried, pressed, and strung on a wire against the hallway wall of your shared apartment.

“I want to keep the wilted flowers for the flower girl on our wedding,” you had said once, stringing up another brittle bundle, “and for the table decorations. They hold too many memories.”

He didn’t think you even realized you said it. But Izuku remembered. He remembered everything when it came to you.

So, he left work early that day. Signed the last form with a rushed scribble and didn’t even take off his hero gear before slipping into the little flower shop tucked between a pharmacy and a ramen bar. The same one he’d gone to the very first time—back when he still stammered at the counter and panicked over whether you liked daisies or peonies or sunflowers more.

Now, the florist greeted him with a knowing smile.

“Same as always?” she asked.

He nodded. “But can you add some baby’s breath this time?”

She tilted her head. “Special occasion?”

He hesitated, then smiled softly. “Not yet. But I’m getting close.”

When he got home, the apartment was quiet, lights off except the dim kitchen one you always left on for him. The scent of your shampoo lingered in the hallway, the faint trace of you he always noticed first.

You were in the living room, curled on the couch with your legs tucked under you, flipping through an old photo album filled with pressed flowers between pages. Each one dated. Named. The handwriting was his.

You looked up as he entered.

“New bouquet already?” you asked, a smile tugging at your lips.

He held it out to you like it was something sacred. Maybe it was. “The daisy at work started to wilt.”

You stood, took the flowers, and your fingers brushed his. You didn’t say much, just turned toward the hallway where the wall was already crowded with memories. He followed you, watching as you gently removed the last bouquet—dry, a little crumpled—and replaced it with the fresh one. You didn’t throw the wilted flowers away. You never did. Instead, you tied them at the stems and clipped them up beside the others.

One more memory hung up to dry.

Izuku stood behind you, heart swelling. The hallway was filled with brown and beige, pinks faded into ivory. An entire history of your love, written in petals.

You turned to him, eyes warm. “Think we’ll ever run out of space?”

He chuckled. “Then we’ll move to a bigger place.”

You leaned in, resting your head on his chest, the faintest scent of crushed flowers rising between you.

“I meant what I said, you know,” you murmured. “About the wedding.”

He kissed the top of your head. “I know.”

And he really did.