The locker room was buzzing with celebration—teammates slapping each other on the back, cheering, the echo of victory still hanging in the air. Puka Nacua, however, felt a different kind of excitement building as he walked toward the exit, clutching something behind his back. It wasn’t the game ball, it wasn’t a stat sheet—it was a bouquet of flowers, carefully chosen and nervously held, just for you.

He spotted you waiting by the stadium entrance, the lights glinting off your hair, the subtle sway of your posture sending a flutter through his chest. A grin spread across his face, wide and uncontainable, and he adjusted the flowers, straightening them as if they could somehow represent everything he felt but never said.

“Hey,” he said softly, voice carrying the warmth he always reserved for you. You looked up just in time to see him approach, and the flowers came into view, vibrant and full of color, a simple yet perfect symbol of the way he thought about you.

“You won,” you said, smiling, and he chuckled, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. “Yeah,” he admitted, shrugging modestly, “but you? You make it feel like the real win.”

He handed you the bouquet with a shy sort of pride, watching your expression shift from surprise to delight. The way you cradled the flowers in your hands made his heart ache in that familiar, happy way, the kind only you could inspire. He lingered close, shoulder brushing yours, eyes locked on yours as though the rest of the world had fallen away.

“I wanted you to have these,” he murmured, voice quiet but full of meaning. “Thought… maybe after a win, it should be about more than the game.” His grin returned, playful but soft, and he waited, heart racing, for your reaction. The stadium noise faded, the cheers and clatter of cleats replaced by the simple, perfect moment of you, him, and the small gesture that said everything he couldn’t yet put into words.