The Lost Art of a Soft Romance

Burgundy

He waited, anxiously— but gently—petting the deep red Peony in his hands with the sides of his thumbs. He had looked up the meaning of a red Peony, and at that moment he rather wished he hadn't.
He was conflicted yet again about if he was coming on too strong. About if she liked him or just pitied him for two minutes every Saturday morning. About if he was really in love or if that was too serious, if love even had to be serious, if love was so many things and not just what they tell you, and if love could be a small, light feeling which didn't really mean much but felt like everything.
But his doubts and questions faded away when she finally came out the door. It was odd how she could calm his nerves with just her presence. There weren't any questions with her, no awkward interactions. In fact, he still wasn't sure that she had even spoken a word to him thus far... When he thought about it, the only thing he could remember hearing from her lips was her smothered laughter as he returned the flower he stole when he was a kid.
She skipped down the dewey lawn towards him, arms outstretched. But even on her tiptoes she couldn't reach the bundle of petals in his hand. He had lifted the flower delicately up as far as he could, up out of her grasp.
She tilted her head, her eyebrows drawing together but her smile persistent.
He swallowed hard. "D-do you know what a Red Peony means...?" He mumbled.
Her eyebrows lifted. "Do you?"
"It means... love. Which is a b-a bit presumptuous I know—" he stammered.
She laughed, quietly. "Maybe so."
He lowered his arms, holding the flower over his heart.
She snatched it and gave him a playful smirk. "And... technically it's Burgundy."
She twisted in half-twirls, making her dress poof up all around her knees like a ridiculous schoolgirl cliché. Then she drew the flower repeatedly across his face both directions, scattering a few petals and going "psh, psh," when the petals refused to make a noise on his cheeks.
It was wonderful how she could just make him melt. Remind him to stop and breathe.
"You don't... you don't mind the meaning?"
She paused. "I thought you chose it because of the meaning."
"What if I did?" He blushed, trying not to grin.
"Well," she stepped closer. "The sky would be a little bit brighter today."
Well that was stupid and cliché and embarrassing and why couldn't he stop smiling...?
"You're... you're such a wonderful girl. I know I probably don't know the half of it, but..." he sighed, almost dreamily, "you're so polite, and quiet, and just a bit cheeky. And they're all simple little things but it's easy to be drawn to someone like that. It's easy to smile around someone like that, even if you've had a bad day."
She cupped her face— as easily as she could with the flower's stem between her fingers— and squished her flushed cheeks. "I've often thought the same thing myself," she admitted, "about you. I want to surround myself with more people like you. People who care quietly. People who haven't forgotten the lost art of a soft romance." She cleared her throat and shook out her hair, trying to compose herself once more, but the quirk at the edge of her mouth betrayed her. "Hopefully not exactly like you, though. Because then I wouldn't know who to fall in love with." She twirled the Peony and— with a slight glance at her front porch— placed it so nobody in the windows could see when her lips met his for one blissful but brief moment. She then skipped back a few paces, covering her girlish grin. "Next Saturday, how about a Ranunculus?"
"A what?"
"It's the big swirly buttercup flower!" She called, walking steadily backwards and gesturing flippantly with the Peony in her hand.
"I still don't really know what you mean, but I'll... I'll look it up!" He promised, still a little bit giddy from the kiss.

He had a new flower to become the questionable-amateur-expert on.