Annie looked down to the rose that Armin held in his hand. It was pretty, but what was he handing it to her for? She stared at the red petals; she looked at how gently he held it out to her. She did not quite understand the gesture, yet there he was, holding the flower out to her.
He smiled. He leant down a touch and placed the stem—void of thorns—between her head and her ear. She reached up, feeling the soft petals. She pulled it down into her grasp and took a good look at it. It surprisingly had no signs of age or wear. She studied the delicate thing. She was not used to such a gesture.
With Armin, though, it was something that she was probably going to have to get used to if they continued their blooming relationship, if the look in his eyes said anything that was. He was a sweet boy and this gesture seemed to brighten up his mood. She took one last glance at the rose, and then placed it back where he had had it.
She smiled lightly. It felt almost foreign, yet with him, it was almost becoming natural. She tiptoed and briskly planted her lips against his for a flash of a moment before whispering, “Thank you.”