mwlabiee
"Just give him the flowers," he muttered under his breath for the tenth time, pacing in the sunlight like a wind-up toy slowly unwinding. "Say thank you. Say... something sweet."
In his hands was a small bouquet-sunflowers and daisies, gathered hastily from the fields, a little uneven, some petals slightly bent, tied together with a single red ribbon he'd tugged off a gift box from last Christmas. It wasn't perfect. But it was him.
"This is fine," he whispered. "It's fine. He won't laugh. Right?"
The longer he stood there, the less sure he became.
He knocked.