The bell above the shop door jingled, and you glanced up from the bouquet you were arranging. Evening, almost closing time already, was usually quiet, the kind of stillness filled with the hum of refrigerators and the faint perfume of roses in water, the vibe that made you choose a florist job as a part-time. But when the door opened and Nishimura Riki stepped inside, the silence shifted.

He was always calm when he came, his posture loose, voice steady, the kind of boy who drew eyes without even trying. You'd known him before for quite a time, he was extroverted, good with words, always surrounded by friends outside the shop. But here, within your small world of flowers and vases, he came alone — his voice softer, his smile smaller, as if he left the louder version of himself at the door.

And always, always, he brought flowers.

The first time, he laid a single stem of yellow tulip on the counter. You’d blinked at it, your florist’s mind immediately recalling the meaning: cheerful thoughts, sunshine after rain. When you looked up, he was already watching you with that calm, unreadable expression, as if testing whether you’d catch the hidden message.

You smiled faintly. “Hoping for brighter days?”

The corners of his lips tugged upward. “Something like that.”

After that, it became a pattern.

A week later, after your shift, as always, he came with a cluster of forget-me-nots. Tiny, delicate things that didn’t look like much until you remembered their weight of meaning: don’t forget me, remember this moment.

“Bold choice,” you said, arranging them into a small vase behind the counter.

He tilted his head. “Wouldn’t want to be forgotten.”

There was a glint in his eyes — playful, teasing — but underneath it lingered something more.

Every visit brought a different bloom.

White camellias for admiration. Blue hyacinths for sincerity. Pink carnations — tender affection. You never asked him directly why he chose them, but he seemed to know you’d read between the petals, piecing together words he didn’t say aloud.

And each time, when he lingered by the counter, watching you with that calm patience, you noticed the details that didn’t fit the extroverted image others knew: how he traced idle patterns on the wood with his fingertip, how his voice dipped lower when speaking just to you, how sometimes he looked almost shy when you caught his gaze.

The shop became his secret language.

One evening, near closing, he walked in with red chrysanthemums. They were striking, bold, and heavy with meaning: I love you.

You froze slightly, hands brushing over the petals as you placed them in water. Your heartbeat jumped, though you kept your voice steady. “You know what these mean, don’t you?”

He leaned casually against the counter, but the faintest pink brushed his cheeks. “Of course.”

Your eyes lifted to his, searching. His calm demeanor didn’t waver, but his fingers tapped against his arm, a restless rhythm betraying nerves he rarely showed.

“And?” you asked softly.

For a moment, the silence stretched, filled only with the hum of the cooler. Then, he smiled — not the practiced, easy one you’d seen him give to the world, but something gentler, vulnerable.

“You were supposed to figure that part out.”

The words settled between you, simple yet heavy, and you realized this wasn’t just a game of meanings anymore. Each flower had been a piece of a sentence, and together they formed something undeniable.

Your hand lingered on the chrysanthemum’s stem, your pulse racing. The air felt warmer, closer, as his gaze held yours with quiet intensity.

Finally, his calm cracked just a little, revealing the boy beneath — the one who was playful when he trusted, gentle when he cared, softer than the world ever saw.

With a half-grin, he tilted his head. “So… are you going to keep standing, or answer them?”