rushplay asked: 💐💐💐💐💐💐💐💐 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 wouldn’t seem insane — 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. it’s barely measurable. it’s the amount of time milk lasts in the fridge. it’s a vacation. it’s a blink. and yet it feels like something that has been building for much longer. he’s standing at the bottom of the porch steps now, and for a moment i don’t even notice what he’s holding. i just notice him.
i don’t 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. he’s beautiful the way something solid is beautiful — 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 don’t. i don’t blame them. what i can’t believe — still, even after three weeks — is that he looks at me the way he does. like i’m the surprising thing. like i’m the one he can’t quite believe. it’s valentine’s 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 didn’t need to make a big deal of it. three weeks is too new for pressure. too new for expectations. but he’s here. there’s something tucked behind his back, and the gesture is so almost-cliché that it makes my chest tighten instead of roll my eyes. he looks slightly uncomfortable — 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. i’ve seen him before games with less nerves than this. and that — more than anything — is what undoes me because it’s been three weeks, and he still cares how i’ll react. it’s been three weeks, and he still looks at me like this is new. like i’m new. i think that’s what makes it feel fragile. not breakable — he’s not breakable — but tender. like we’re both holding something we don’t want to drop. he finally brings his hands forward. flowers. of course they’re flowers. white roses. pale blue hydrangeas. soft blush tucked between them. a ribbon tied carefully around the stems — not sloppy, not rushed. intentional. my first real valentine’s 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 — whether it lasts or not. but standing here, watching him hold them out to me like he’s offering something far more vulnerable than petals and stems, i don’t think about the future. i just think: he chose me. three weeks in, and he is still choosing me. and i cannot believe — not fully, not yet — that someone that beautiful, that steady, that quietly extraordinary, is standing on my porch on valentine’s day with flowers in his hands and that soft, almost-hopeful look in his eyes. for me.
❝ hi. ❞ i say it quietly, almost breathless, because somehow saying his name aloud doesn’t feel enough for what i’m feeling. i glance down at the bouquet again, letting my eyes trace the delicate petals before i meet his gaze. ❝ you didn’t have to do this, ❞ i tell him, shaking my head slightly, though i mean the exact opposite. ❝ i mean — i love that you did. i just… it’s only been three weeks. ❞ i laugh softly, a little nervously, because the words sound absurd even as they come out. ❝ you’re making us look very established, ❞ i add, stepping down one stair so i’m closer, close enough to see the faint pink on his cheeks. ❝ they’re really beautiful, ❞ i murmur, reaching for the stems slowly, letting my fingers brush his. ❝ thank you, ❞ i say, softer this time, and then, before i can stop myself, i add, ❝ you know this is my first real valentine’s day with an actual boyfriend, right? ❞ a small smile tugs at my lips, teasing but warm. ❝ so no pressure or anything… but this is setting a very high bar. ❞ i hug the flowers to my chest, tilting my head slightly as if to measure the moment. ❝ i was going to give you a card and maybe kiss you and call it impressive, ❞ i admit, letting the words spill out, ❝ but this… this is better. ❞
