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You pull into the pickup lane outside the ER entrance and kill the engine. The hospital lights are harsh even from here, and you can see a few people smoking and loitering by the side entrance. You check your phone, still no update. 

It's been closer to twenty, but you don't mind. You know how her shifts go.

You spot her the second she pushes through the ER doors. Samira's still in her scrubs, her hair messier than when she left this morning, and she's rubbing the back of her neck the way she always does after a long shift. She doesn't see you at first. She's looking down at her phone, probably checking if you texted.

You lean against your car and wait. The parking lot is mostly empty now. A few other hospital staff are trickling out, swapping their badges for jackets. The air smells like rain from earlier, but it's stopped now.

Finally she looks up. Her face changes when she sees you, her smile melting the exhaustion to her face. She was beautiful, you couldn't help but stare at her as she walked up to you. 

"You didn't have to come," she says when she's close enough. Same thing she says almost every time you pick her up. "I told you I could take the bus."

"I know," you say. "I wanted to."

She stops in front of you and tilts her head. "Long day?"

You hum, "Maybe, but I’d say it was longer for you."

She huffs a small laugh but there was no real humour in it. She's standing close now. Close enough that you can see the small lines around her eyes, the way her bottom lip is a little chapped from twelve hours of not drinking enough water. The baby hair that’s falling out of her ponytail in pieces.

You reach up before you think about it.

Your hand goes to the side of her face, fingers brushing the loose hairs back from her temple. Her skin is warm. You cup her cheek gently, your thumb running once over her cheekbone, then again, slower.

She closes her eyes for a second. "You're staring again," she says quietly, eyes still shut.

"And? I can’t help it."

She opens her eyes, probably takes in the stupid smile on your face and laughs softly. “You sap.”

Huffing a small laugh of your own, you lean in. She meets you halfway.

The kiss is soft. No rush. Her lips are warm against yours, and you feel her exhale through her nose, a slow release of tension. You keep your hand on her face, thumb still moving gently along her jaw. She reaches up and rests her fingers on your wrist, keeping you there.

When you pull back, you don't go far. Your forehead touches hers for a moment. You can feel her breath on your chin.

"Hi," she whispers.

"Hi."

She pulls back just enough to look at you. "So," she says. "Are you going to keep standing here or are we going to your car?"

Right. The flowers.

“Opp, yeah one sec. I got a little distracted.” You step back and turn toward the passenger window. She watches you, curious. You reach inside and pull out the bouquet you'd been hiding. It's wrapped in green florist paper, you'd asked the guy at the shop to keep it simple. Eleven stems of white lilies, some still closed, a few already open wide. The smell hits both of you at once, sweet and a little spicy.

Samira blinks. She looks at the flowers, then at you, then back at the flowers. For a second she doesn't say anything.

"What's this?" she asks.

"Flowers."

"I can see that." She takes them from your hands carefully, like she's not sure she's allowed to hold them. "But why?"

You shrug. "Do I need a reason?"

"You've never gotten me flowers before."

“Woooooow,” you drawl, a teasing smirk slowly spreading, “way to make me sound like a shit partner.”

She stares at the bouquet for a long moment. You watch her turn it slightly, looking at the lilies from different angles. Her thumb brushes one of the petals.

"These are nice," she says quietly. Then she looks up at you with a small smirk. "Lilies, though? You know cats can get sick from these, right?"

"I don't have a cat."

"I have a cat."

You freeze. "Fuck. You do?"

"No." She laughs. "I'm messing with you. I don't have a cat."

"You're annoying."

"I like to keep you on your toes." She tucks the bouquet under her arm and starts walking toward the passenger side. "Come on. Take me home. I'm starving."

You get in the driver's seat and start the car. She buckles in, still holding the flowers in her lap. The paper crinkles every time she moves.

"So," she says as you pull out of the parking lot, "what made you do it?"

"Do what?"

"The flowers. You've never done flowers before."

You keep your eyes on the road. It's a ten-minute drive to her place, mostly through side streets. "I passed that shop on my way to work this morning and I just thought. I don't know. You've had a rough week. You had that patient die on Tuesday, and you came home and didn't talk for two hours. And yesterday you said you felt like no one noticed how hard you were working."

Samira is quiet for a second. "I didn't mean it like that."

"You said 'I don't think anyone even sees what I do in there.' Same thing."

She shifts in her seat. The lilies rustle. "Okay, fine. But that was one off handed comment. You don't have to buy me flowers every time I complain."

"Meh. Maybe I’m just using it to treat my girl." You glance over at her. She's looking out the window, but you can see her mouth is pressed together in that way, which means she's trying not to smile too much. "Do you like them?"

She turns back to you. "Yeah," she says. Her voice is softer now. "I like them. I've never gotten lilies before. My mom always had roses in the house."

"Are roses better?" You panic slightly, maybe you should have got the roses. 

"Roses are fine. Lilies are," She looks down at the bouquet again. "Different. In a good way."

You stop at a red light. The street is empty except for a guy walking his dog on the other side. You watch Samira lift the bouquet to her nose and inhale. She closes her eyes for a second.

"They smell strong," she says.

"That's good, right?"

"It's fine. It's just going to make my whole flat smell like a funeral home."

"You're impossible."

She grins. "Love you."

The light turns green. You drive the rest of the way in comfortable silence. She reaches over at one point and rests her hand on your leg and leaves it there for the rest of the ride.

When you pull up outside her building, she doesn't get out right away. She sits there with the flowers in her lap, looking at the front door like she's deciding something.

"You want to come up?" she asks. "I could make pasta."

"I love to! But I can't. I have to open tomorrow morning."

"Right." She nods, a little reluctant. "Okay. Rain check."

"Yeah. Definitely."

There’s a brief pause, soft and unhurried. Then she leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips. It was warm, lingering just a second longer than expected.

"Text me when you get home," she murmurs, close enough that you can still feel her breath.

"I will."

She pulls back with a small smile, then opens the door and steps out, holding the bouquet against her chest with both hands. You watch her walk up the short path to the entrance. She has to fish her keys out of her pocket while not dropping the flowers, which takes a couple of tries. You think about getting out to help her, but she manages.

At the door, she turns around. The streetlight is behind her, so you can't see her face super clearly, but you can see her lift the bouquet slightly, like a little wave. After you wave back, she pushes the door open and disappears inside. You hear the door click shut.

You sit there for another minute, maybe more. The car still smells like lilies. You start the engine and pull away slowly. Halfway down the block, your phone buzzes. You don’t check it until you get home. 

After reading the messages, you smile to yourself and get ready for bed.

The next time you meet her, it's outside a coffee shop near the hospital. She's getting a coffee before her shift starts. You hand her eleven stems of orange daisies wrapped in brown paper. "These are bold." she says.

You shrug and say “They made me smile, I hoped they would do the same to you.” 

Samira giggles softly, brushing her finger over one of the petals. "They won't have a vase to live in while I'm at work."

"They can last a few hours in your locker."

"Hm. True." She glances at the counter. Her coffee is ready. She picks it up, then tucks the bouquet into the crook of her arm. "Walk with me?"

"Of course."

You step out of the coffee shop together. The morning air is cool, still a little damp from last night. She sips her coffee as you walk. The hospital is only a few minutes away. You can see the ER entrance up ahead, the automatic doors sliding open and closed as people go in and out.

"Thanks for this," she says, nodding at the flowers. "You didn't have to come all the way out here."

"I was in the area."

"You work twenty minutes in the opposite direction."

You don't answer. You just smile at her and flutter your eyes.

She shakes her head, but she's smiling too.

You reach the entrance. A few people are standing by the doors, finishing cigarettes or idly chatting. One of them, a woman with blonde hair spots the flowers and grins at Samira.

"Morning, Dr. Mohan," the woman says. "Nice flowers."

"Thanks, Dana." Samira doesn't explain. She just turns to you.

For a second, neither of you says anything. Then she leans in and kisses you quickly. Just a peck. But her free hand squeezes your arm before she pulls away.

"Text me later," she says.

"I will. I hope work goes well."

She turns and pushes through the doors. The woman watches her go, then looks at you with a knowing smile. You nod at her smiling bashfully, then turn and walk back toward your car parked at the cafe.

Another evening, you drop them off at her door at 9 PM. She's just out of the shower, hair wet, wearing a bathrobe. Eleven stems of white freesias. "You're going to make my whole flat smell like perfume." she says. 

"Ah, that bad thing? Should I stop?" 

"No." She sniffs them. "It’s nice. Come in." 

You stay for an hour. You watch her put them in a vase on the kitchen counter. The previous flowers are still on the table by the window, starting to brown now. She throws them out without you saying anything.

The next time you give her flowers it was raining, you meet her at the bus stop because she actually took the bus that time. You're holding an umbrella over both of you and a bouquet of eleven pink peonies. "You're going to run out of flowers," she says. 

You shrug and say, "There's a lot of flowers in the world."

"Then you're going to run out of money." she quickly replies.

"I can budget." you reply.

She laughs and tucks the peonies under her jacket to keep them dry. You walk her the rest of the way home.

Then, on date night, the two of you end up at the Italian place she loves, your usual drinks already ordered and waiting by the time you settle in.

She sits across from you, hair down for once, falling softly over her shoulders instead of being tied back the way you’re used to. The change is small, but it does something to you, makes her look more gentle, somehow. Less like the composed, always-moving version of her you usually see, and more like someone you get to keep all to yourself for a little while.

She’s wearing a nice top, it was nothing overly fancy, but it fits her in a way that makes it hard not to stare. The soft lighting of the restaurant catches on her skin, on the curve of her cheek, the line of her collarbone. You find yourself noticing details you don’t always let yourself linger on. The way she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, the way her lips curve when she catches you looking. She looks softer outside of her scrubs. Not less beautiful. Never that. 

And it hits you, suddenly just how beautiful she is.

You sigh softly and think, “I’m so very lucky.”

Tonight, though, she's quieter than usual. It looks like she was turning something over in her head. She keeps glancing at you, then looking away, then glancing back. Like she wants to ask something but isn't sure how.

“What?” you ask.

“Nothing,” she picks up her wineglass, “can’t I admire my beautiful girlfriend?” 

“You can.” You preen slightly, “But it looks like it's killing you to ask a question. What is it?”

She takes a sip from the wine, then sets it down and leans forward on the table “How do you know?”

You furrow your brows in confusion and ask "Know what?" 

"When to bring the flowers." She tilts her head, studying you. "You've never once asked me if they've died. You've never come over and checked the vase. But you show up with a new bouquet the day after they go limp. Every single time."

You take a sip of your drink, humming playfully you reply “And give away my secret?”

"I'm serious." She's not annoyed, but she's genuinely curious. Perplexed, even. "It doesn't make sense. The lilies, the daisies, the peonies, all of them. You always show up right when they start to brown. I honestly thought you put a camera in my flat or something."

You blink in alarm “Oh darling I would never do that.”

"I know." She rolls her eyes, but fondly. "Obviously. So how?" 

You set your drink down. Look at her for a second. The candlelight is flickering, and she's leaning in so close that you can see the tiny freckles across her nose that only come out in summer. You want to kiss her. But first, you want to see her face when she hears this.

You reach into your jacket pocket and pull out your phone. Scroll for a moment, then turn the screen toward her.

It's a photo. Simple. A small glass vase on a table in your kitchen. Inside the vase is one single flower. A purple lisianthus, a little droopy at the stem. Not dead, but close.

She stares at the photo. Then at you. Then back to the photo.

"I buy twelve," you say. "Not eleven." 

“What?” She blinks in confusion. "But you give me eleven." 

You nod and say. “Yes, and I keep the twelfth. I put it in a vase on my kitchen table. When it starts to go limp, I know yours are probably the same. So I buy you more."

She doesn't say anything for a long moment. Just looks at the photo. Then looks at you. Then looks back at the photo. "You've been doing that this whole time," she says. Not a question.

“Yeah." 

"For how long?" 

"Since the first bouquet. The lilies. I kept one. It lasted a week and a half. Then I bought the daisies."

She leans back in her chair. Crosses her arms. But she's not upset. She's processing. "So every time you've given me flowers," she says slowly, "there's been one more sitting in your kitchen. Just waiting to die so you know when to come over." 

"That's one way to put it." 

She stares at you for another five seconds. Then she shakes her head and laughs. "You fucking sap," she says.

"Only for you, baby."

She reaches across the table and grabs your hand. Holds it tight. Her thumb rubs over your knuckles, back and forth.

"That's the stupidest, sweetest, most ridiculous thing I've ever heard," she says.