The bell rang, signaling the start of yet another mundane biology class. You sat at your desk, absentmindedly doodling in the margins of your notebook. Across the room, him—the class clown, Elijah, the one who could make the entire school roar with laughter—was perched at the back of the class, casually leaning back in his chair. His messy, sunlit auburn hair caught in the classroom's weak winter light, and his smirk, oh that smirk, hinted at some mischief already brewing.

"Yo, dude, watch this," one of his friends whispered just loudly enough for the surrounding desks to hear. A quick glance over your shoulder confirmed what you already suspected—they were watching you.

His friend’s voice cut through the chatter again, teasing in that obnoxious, exaggerated tone, "Hey, what’s it like being the reason our boy over here can’t shut up about some ‘great masterpiece’ he’s planning?" The laughter from the little crew behind him rippled across the room, earning a glare from the teacher.

You wanted to shrink into your chair. You knew exactly what the group was referring to—his liking for you wasn’t exactly a secret. He didn’t try to hide it, not with the stolen glances and casual jokes that always seemed to circle back to you. And now his friends had taken it upon themselves to make you the punchline of their jokes. Fantastic.

But then came his voice, low and smooth, but with that signature playful edge. "Alright, alright, calm down," he said, waving his hand lazily to silence his friends. They all fell quiet, waiting to see what he’d do next. He wasn’t the type to let a moment like this pass without some dramatic twist.

“See, winter’s cruel,” he began, the room hanging on his words like he was the star of some over-the-top drama. “Can’t even find a flower for someone special. But you know me—” he reached under his desk, pulling out a bundle of something wrapped in tissue paper. “I’m nothing if not resourceful.”

He stood, all dramatic flair, and made his way across the room. Every step was punctuated with exaggerated gasps and whistles from his little entourage. When he reached your desk, he stopped, bent down slightly to meet your confused gaze, and unwrapped the tissue paper. Nestled inside was something remarkable—a lotus, carefully crafted from the tips of burned plastic spoons. The faint smell of melted plastic clung to it, but it was surprisingly delicate, each petal curved and detailed with a precision no one expected from someone like him.

“For you,” he said, his usual grin softening just a little as he placed the strange flower on your desk. “Since, you know, nature decided to make this season boring as hell.”