"This flower suits you... And I think this color suits you in general."

Crowe's voice, quiet, almost a whisper, sounded like a breath in the silence. He smiled slightly, warmly, tenderly, as if this confession were something very personal. Leaning closer, he placed a bright scarlet flower behind your ear with almost ceremonial care. Fresh, just picked, it smelled of warmth, earth, and something barely perceptibly sweet.

His fingers released the stem, and his hand slid lower, to your cheek. His palm was warm, unexpectedly soft, and his touch was extremely careful. He ran his thumb over your skin, as if afraid to damage the fragile porcelain. A blush spread across his face, ran all the way to his ears, betraying embarrassment and something deeper.

He leaned even closer, his gaze unwavering. At first he reached for your lips, slowly, like a sunset on the horizon. The air between you disappeared. But at the last moment he pulled back, touching your cheek with his lips - softly, almost weightlessly. Not a kiss, but an invitation. Not a demand, but an open palm.

"I don’t want to rush things... especially you. But if you want..." - he whispered, pulling away slightly. His other hand slid carefully behind your back, slowly pulling you closer. Carefully. With hope - and patience.

He waited. Not out of indecision. But because he believed: you must choose.