As the soft chime of the doorbell echoed throughout the quaint apartment, you couldn’t help the flicker of anticipation that tightened somewhere deep in your chest. The sound seemed unusually loud in the quiet evening air, cutting through the hum of the city outside your windows and the low music drifting from the kitchen speaker.

For a second, you simply stood there.

Then reality caught up to you.

You hurriedly smoothed invisible wrinkles from your clothes, patting down your hair with nervous hands before glancing around the apartment as though checking for any last-minute disasters. The warm glow from the lamps painted everything in gold — the books stacked unevenly on the coffee table, the blanket tossed carelessly over the couch, the half-finished mug of tea you’d abandoned the moment the bell rang.

Another breath.

Another steadying heartbeat.

Then you crossed the apartment and pulled the door open.

And there he was.

Pietro stood in the hallway with a bouquet of deep red roses tucked awkwardly against his chest, like he hadn’t quite figured out what to do with them. The overhead light caught against his silver hair, giving it a pale glow, and for once he wasn’t moving at a blur-fast pace or leaning against the doorway with that insufferably confident grin he usually wore.

Instead, he looked… uncertain.

His cheeks carried the faintest flush of pink, subtle enough that most people probably wouldn’t notice it.

But you did.

His blue eyes flickered over your face quickly before darting away again, almost boyishly, and it was so unlike him that it momentarily stole the breath from your lungs. Pietro — the man who flirted like it was second nature and walked into every room like he owned it — suddenly seemed unable to decide where to look.

One hand tightened slightly around the bouquet.

“Hi,” he said finally, voice quieter than usual.

The Sokovian accent curled warmly around the word.

Then, almost immediately afterward, he grimaced at himself as if internally criticizing how stupidly simple that sounded.

A nervous laugh escaped him. “I had something smoother planned on the way here.” He lifted the roses a little in surrender. “Much smoother, actually.”

His eyes met yours again, softer this time.

“But then you opened the door.”

For a moment neither of you spoke.

The hallway light buzzed faintly overhead. Somewhere outside, a car horn sounded in the distance. Yet the world suddenly felt very small — narrowed down to the roses in his hands, the nervous tension in his shoulders, and the way he was looking at you like your reaction genuinely mattered to him.

And somehow, that realization was far more overwhelming than his usual teasing confidence ever could have been.