Tod is terrible at keeping secrets.

So when your one-year anniversary arrives and he hands you a small box with shaking hands and a nervous smile, you already know it means something.

“I know it’s not… normal,” he says quickly. “But I wanted it to last. Like—longer than flowers usually do.”

Inside the box is a bouquet of LEGO flowers. Bright, colorful, carefully chosen. Still unbuilt.

Your heart melts instantly.

“Todd,” you breathe, smiling so hard it almost hurts. “This is perfect.”

Two days later, the box sits open on your bedroom floor.

Instruction booklet. Tiny pieces scattered everywhere. The faint sound of music playing from your phone.

Tod lies on his stomach beside you, brow furrowed in full concentration as he tries to snap two pieces together.

“I swear,” he mutters, “this thing hates me.”

You laugh softly. “You’re building it upside down.”

He looks at his work. Pauses. Groans dramatically. “That explains a lot.”