rushplayĀ asked: šššššššš isak brings a bouquet of flowers for isabel
it has only been three weeks. twenty-one days. i know because i counted them once in the notes app on my phone and then immediately deleted it so i wouldnāt seem insane ā even to myself. three weeks since he stood in the cold outside the rink and asked me, almost shyly, if i wanted to be his girlfriend. three weeks since i said yes and felt something in my life quietly shift into place. three weeks is nothing. itās barely measurable. itās the amount of time milk lasts in the fridge. itās a vacation. itās a blink. and yet it feels like something that has been building for much longer. heās standing at the bottom of the porch steps now, and for a moment i donāt even notice what heās holding. i just notice him.
i donāt think i will ever get used to how beautiful he is.
not in a delicate way. not in the polished, curated way boys sometimes try to be. heās beautiful the way something solid is beautiful ā broad shoulders under a soft gray sweater, hands a little rough from tape and ice and years of gripping a stick too tight. his hair falls into his eyes when he forgets to style it, and he never remembers to fix it unless i reach up and do it for him. sometimes i catch people staring at him. at the rink. on the street. girls who recognize him, girls who donāt. i donāt blame them. what i canāt believe ā still, even after three weeks ā is that he looks at me the way he does. like iām the surprising thing. like iām the one he canāt quite believe. itās valentineās day. i knew that, obviously. the entire world has been red and pink for the past two weeks. heart-shaped candy. glittering cards. overpriced roses at the grocery store. i told myself we didnāt need to make a big deal of it. three weeks is too new for pressure. too new for expectations. but heās here. thereās something tucked behind his back, and the gesture is so almost-clichĆ© that it makes my chest tighten instead of roll my eyes. he looks slightly uncomfortable ā not awkward, exactly, but aware. like he understands the weight of the day and chose to show up anyway.
he shifts his weight, glances up at me, then back down. iāve seen him before games with less nerves than this. and that ā more than anything ā is what undoes me because itās been three weeks, and he still cares how iāll react. itās been three weeks, and he still looks at me like this is new. like iām new. i think thatās what makes it feel fragile. not breakable ā heās not breakable ā but tender. like weāre both holding something we donāt want to drop. he finally brings his hands forward. flowers. of course theyāre flowers. white roses. pale blue hydrangeas. soft blush tucked between them. a ribbon tied carefully around the stems ā not sloppy, not rushed. intentional. my first real valentineās bouquet from my first real boyfriend. and suddenly i am acutely aware that this is the kind of moment girls remember. the kind they compare all future ones to. the kind that becomes a story you tell years later ā whether it lasts or not. but standing here, watching him hold them out to me like heās offering something far more vulnerable than petals and stems, i donāt think about the future. i just think: he chose me. three weeks in, and he is still choosing me. and i cannot believe ā not fully, not yet ā that someone that beautiful, that steady, that quietly extraordinary, is standing on my porch on valentineās day with flowers in his hands and that soft, almost-hopeful look in his eyes. for me.
ā hi. ā i say it quietly, almost breathless, because somehow saying his name aloud doesnāt feel enough for what iām feeling. i glance down at the bouquet again, letting my eyes trace the delicate petals before i meet his gaze. ā you didnāt have to do this, ā i tell him, shaking my head slightly, though i mean the exact opposite. ā i mean ā i love that you did. i just⦠itās only been three weeks. ā i laugh softly, a little nervously, because the words sound absurd even as they come out. ā youāre making us look very established, ā i add, stepping down one stair so iām closer, close enough to see the faint pink on his cheeks. ā theyāre really beautiful, ā i murmur, reaching for the stems slowly, letting my fingers brush his. ā thank you, ā i say, softer this time, and then, before i can stop myself, i add, ā you know this is my first real valentineās day with an actual boyfriend, right? ā a small smile tugs at my lips, teasing but warm. ā so no pressure or anything⦠but this is setting a very high bar. ā i hug the flowers to my chest, tilting my head slightly as if to measure the moment. ā i was going to give you a card and maybe kiss you and call it impressive, ā i admit, letting the words spill out, ā but this⦠this is better. ā