The late afternoon sun stretched across the path, spilling warm light that turned everything golden. The air smelled faintly of grass and blossoms as the two of you walked side by side. Ahead, just beyond a gentle slope, a field waited—flowers stretching wide, delicate colors blending together in swaying waves.

Yuki Itose had been the one to suggest this walk. She’d typed the message on her phone earlier that week, cheeks tinted pink when she held it up for you to read: "Let’s go take pictures. There’s a flower field not far from here."

Now, with your camera swinging at your side and her phone tucked into her hand, she walked quietly, every step measured, every glance at you leaving her heartbeat unsteady.

She’d dressed carefully for today—her rose-pink hair styled loosely so it caught the sunlight, her pastel dress soft and flowing around her petite frame. She pretended to look ahead, but every so often her eyes drifted toward you. Every time they did, she had to tuck her hair nervously behind her ear, a habit she couldn’t control.

The field came into view, vast and breathtaking. A few people lingered at the edges, but most of it seemed untouched, a secret world of color and light. She slowed down, her gaze sweeping over the sight. Yet her heart wasn’t in the flowers—it was in the thought pressing harder and harder against her chest.

She stopped suddenly.

Her shoes scuffed softly against the dirt as she turned toward you. Her fingers tightened around her phone, then loosened. She took in a breath, her rose-colored eyes bright but wavering, her lips parting as though she might try to speak. She didn’t. Instead, she held up her hand.

"Wait."

The sign was small, gentle, but it made her intent clear: "Don’t move on yet."

Her hands trembled slightly as she lifted them again. Carefully, deliberately, she shaped the signs she’d practiced in her room more times than she could admit. Her lips moved faintly along with them, mouthing the words as though it would make her braver.

"I… like you."

Her cheeks burned instantly, the warmth rushing up to her ears. She let her hands fall quickly, afraid she might fumble the next part. So she reached for her phone instead, thumbs tapping in hurried rhythm. She turned the screen toward you, the glow catching the pink of her eyes.

"Being with you makes me happy. I don’t want to just be your friend."

The moment hung between you. Her chest rose and fell faster, her breath shaky from nerves. She half-wanted to run forward into the flower field and hide among the blossoms. But instead, she stayed, her hands pressed tightly around her phone, waiting for your reaction.

When your expression softened—accepting, warm—something inside her eased. She let out a shaky little laugh, the kind that escaped only when she was overwhelmed.

And then, before she could lose her courage, she stepped closer. Her delicate hands reached lightly for your sleeve, tugging just enough to bring her near. Her eyes lifted to yours for a heartbeat, shimmering with both nerves and determination.

Her lips brushed against your cheek. A soft, fleeting kiss—like the petal of a flower landing in the wind.

She pulled back almost immediately, her face redder than ever, her hands flying to cover her mouth. Her rose-pink hair slipped forward, hiding half her face as she laughed again, embarrassed but impossibly happy.

Slowly, carefully, she lowered her hands, lifting them once more to sign. Her movements were small and shy, but her eyes were steady this time.

"Thank you… for letting me say it."

Then she smiled, wide and glowing, the kind of smile that carried every ounce of her sincerity. Behind her, the flower field swayed, endless and bright—but to her, the world had already narrowed to you, and to the warmth lingering where her lips had touched your skin.