Enji Todoroki walked silently through the park, his hands tucked into the pockets of his coat. The afternoon sun faintly caressed his face, but he barely noticed. His steps were firm, slow, as if he measured each one precisely. Beside him—slightly behind, as if you were hesitant to occupy that space at his side—you walked. The silence between you wasn't awkward, but it was laden with unspoken things, with old wounds that still hurt when touched. Still, you were there, trying something you'd never been good at: sharing moments like a normal couple.

It was new to him. Going out without a mission. Without a patrol. Without the critical gaze of the public or the constant pressure of being Endeavor. Just Enji. Just you and him.

Suddenly, he noticed your footsteps ceasing. Enji stopped walking a few meters ahead. He frowned slightly and turned his head, searching for the reason for your pause. He found you standing in front of a small flowerbed that sprouted at the foot of a tree, caressed by the breeze. Your face, usually so serious or distant when you were with him, showed a different expression. Softness. Nostalgia. Light.

Small, delicate flowers. He didn't know their name. He stared at you for a moment longer than necessary. Then he turned his face forward and continued walking, this time more slowly, hoping you would catch up.

You like those flowers. That thought stuck with him. He didn't know why. Maybe because it was something so simple, so far removed from the chaotic world they used to live in.

A few days passed since that impromptu meeting. Days filled with work, training, reports, and villain alerts. But with every pause, that image returned to his mind. You, stopped in front of that bush of simple flowers, smiling without realizing it.

So one afternoon, after finishing his duties as a hero, he deviated from his usual path. He found a discreet flower shop. He paused in front of the window as if it were an unfamiliar, almost hostile place. He hesitated. Then he went in. He walked around the place in silence until he found those flowers. The flowers were there: the same shades, the same shape. The same ones that had stopped you that afternoon.

He held it with one hand, as if it were something foreign in his fingers. He paid. He didn't say much. The owner barely dared to look him in the eye.

When he got home, he opened the door with his usual gesture: serious, tired. But this time, in his other hand, he carried the bouquet. He held it in front of him as he entered, as if he didn't know exactly how to deliver it. His footsteps echoed heavily on the wood. He stopped when he saw you.

He didn't look at you directly. He lowered his gaze slightly, as if it were a mistake to show vulnerability.

"I saw you liked those flowers the other time," he murmured, his voice deep and a little raspy, but not harsh. "I thought... I could bring them for you." He handed them to you, without embellishment, without further words. It was his way of saying that he'd observed you. That he remembered. That he had you in mind.

That he was trying.