The cottage smells like honey, lavender, and something like earth after rain. The front door creaks open and Mattheo walks in slowly, cradling a new bouquet. He pauses in the doorway to take it in, as he does every morning: the overflowing vases and the petals across the floor.

"Maybe we have too many begonias," Mattheo says.

You're sitting at the kitchen table, reading quietly, your hair still dishevelled from sleep. You look up and smile at him. "And yet, you brought more." You say, setting the book aside.

Mattheo shrugs, pretending to look innocent. "You told me you loved flowers," he says. "I just took that seriously."

"You took it very seriously." You laugh, standing up and padding over to him barefoot.

You take the bouquet gently from his hands. "They're beautiful," you whisper.

"So are you." Mattheo says. He leans in, brushing a kiss across your cheek. His hand lingers on your waist, pulling you in.

"Do you remember when you told me that? About the flowers?" He asks, voice softer now.

You nod. "It was raining. I think I was seventeen."

"You said they made the world feel softer. More… hopeful." Mattheo says. "I didn't know what to do with that back then. But I never forgot it."

You press your forehead to his. "And now the world feels like a greenhouse exploded in our house," you tease.

"A very emotionally balanced greenhouse." Mattheo says. "Overflowing with love."

You both laugh. He lifts you slightly off the ground, spinning you once before setting you down with a playful groan.

"Okay, okay," you say, laughing breathlessly. "You're lucky you're cute."

"And yet, devastatingly charming," Mattheo says.

---

The day stretches lazily. The two of you are sprawled on the living room floor, surrounded by books and fallen petals.

You’re lying on your back, staring up at the ceiling. "Do you think one day we’ll have to stop?" you ask quietly.

Mattheo looks over at you. "Stop what?"

"This," you say, motioning to the chaos around you. "The flowers. The mornings. The way we live like everything is soft."

Mattheo props himself up on one elbow. "No," he says simply. "Even if we’re old and wrinkled and the only flowers we can afford are wild daisies from the roadside… I’ll still bring them to you. Every day."

"Even if I forget why I loved them?" You whisper.

"Then I’ll remind you." Mattheo says. "Every day."