You were just sitting on the windowsill when he came in—quiet, barefoot, shoulders tense like he didn’t know if he should even be here.

He doesn’t say anything right away. Just walks across the room and sets a flower down next to you.

It’s crushed a little. Probably stolen from the neighbor’s garden. But it’s something.

"I saw it and thought of you," he finally says, eyes darting away. "It looked soft. Kinda like... hope."

He sits down a few feet away. Doesn’t look at you, not at first.

"You don’t have to like it. I just— I wanted to give you something that wasn’t messed up. Something not like me."

Then quieter:

"You deserve better. But I’ll stay if you want me to."