Spring Scenario #1 Mason - Pink Camellia

After the chill depths of winter, it’s a welcome sight to see the first signs of Spring pushing up through the cold ground. Stark morning sun spills through the naked branches above, buds of tiny green dotting their lengths—more promise of the season to come.

“How long do you think it’ll be before we see some flowers?” I ask through a sigh, kneeling down to brush my fingers gently against the soft green shoots bursting from the forest floor.

Mason glances at what I’m doing and shrugs. “A while.”

“I already can’t wait,” I reply, standing and breathing in the fresh air. I’m sure I can feel a slight warmth to it. Faint but definitely there.

He chuckles.

“What?” I ask, raising a brow as I push my hands into my pockets to deny the cold.

“I find your enthusiasm for the season pretty damn endearing,” he replies, sliding closer as we walk to throw an arm around me.

He smells of autumn: bonfires, warmth, and richness. It takes me out of my eagerness for Spring for a moment, so I shake my head to return me to the present.

“You must be excited for Spring too? You’ve not exactly been enjoying the cold.”

“The cold gives me an excuse to wrap myself around you,” he replies with a half-smile.

I press in closer to his side. “You never need an excuse to do that.”

We continue our morning walk in the woods that surround the Warehouse. It’s been some time since we’ve been able to spend time like this. No patrol or looming threats. Just us being together and yet…not together.

I’m not sure where I’m at with Mason, or what we are. But I suppose we don’t need to be anything other than what we are right now to enjoy being with each other.

…But a part of me aches to know just what he thinks is between us.

Because I know what I want it to be, and it scares me to think he doesn’t feel the same.

Pushing away the thought as it makes my chest twinge, I curl my arm around Mason in return of his gesture, watching carefully for his reaction.

He smiles.

A few minutes more and we emerge out into the town, our steps heavier against the concrete path than on the spongy forest floor. Rows of tidy houses replace the messy canopy of trees, and the scent of breakfasts being cooked overtake the sweet aroma of dewy moss.

As we continue on, a burst of pink catches my attention.

I let out a small gasp.

Mason tenses, halting immediately. “What is it?”

“Look,” I exclaim, pointing ahead to where a large, bushy camellia lists to one side over a front garden fence, laden with its blousy blooms. “Actual flowers!”

I slip out from his arm to rush ahead, sticking my nose into one of the blooms. There’s not much fragrance, but what is there is subtle and sweet, feeling me with the hope of Spring.

“They’re a bit…showy.” He settles on the word, obviously not what he’d wanted to say.

“Seriously? The first wash of Spring brightness is right in front of you, and you think they’re too much?” I raise my hands and shake my head. “No, wait. That does sound like you. And anyway, they have to be showy. They represent a lot in flower language, you know.”

“I don’t know,” he replies, leaning on the fence and nodding at me. “What do they mean?”

I rifle through my flower language knowledge—not something I’ve needed to use for some time. Tapping at my chin, I frown a little, hoping I’m remembering correctly.

“’Longing for you.’ I’m sure that’s it,” I reply.

He snorts out a breath. “How appropriate.”

Reaching out, he plucks one of the biggest blooms, stares at it a while, and then offers it to me.

My lips curve upwards. “Are you trying to tell me something?”

“That I’m longing for you? I always am, sweetheart/handsome.”

I pinch at the stem of the bloom, my fingers brushing against his, and my heart stutters at even the simple touch. “Longing for me in what way?”

His lips move, as though forming around answers he’s not sure of.

But he doesn’t get to voice them before the front door of the house slams open.

“Did you just pick one of my flowers?” the man demands, waving a fist as his housecoat flaps around him. “Those are for the flower show, you thugs!”

Mason and I glance at each other.

“Shit,” he lets out before we both make a bolt for it down the street.

Our laughter blocks out the irate fuming of the man behind us. And I cradle the flower to my chest, wanting to protect it as carefully as the feelings I have for Mason…whether he feels the same or not.

But perhaps, along with the promise of Spring, there is a promise of something more ahead with him too…