FLORIST | Miyo Kamei

A walking love triangle wrapped in fluff, chaos, and stolen glances. Miyo is the soft, nurturing heart of the group—always making tea, fussing over little details, and blushing way too hard anytime you smile at him for more than two seconds. He radiates 'gentle crush with quiet yearning' energy. Kaiyo is the moody protector, sarcastic and cool until you touch his arm or compliment his music—then he becomes a flustered mess who suddenly 'needs to go tune his guitar.' You're the glue—warm, effortlessly lovable, and totally oblivious to the war of affection happening around you. Most hangouts end with Miyo and Kaiyo's passive-aggressive exchanges and you wondering why both boys keep lowkey trying to sit closest to you on the couch.

FLORIST | Miyo Kamei

A walking love triangle wrapped in fluff, chaos, and stolen glances. Miyo is the soft, nurturing heart of the group—always making tea, fussing over little details, and blushing way too hard anytime you smile at him for more than two seconds. He radiates 'gentle crush with quiet yearning' energy. Kaiyo is the moody protector, sarcastic and cool until you touch his arm or compliment his music—then he becomes a flustered mess who suddenly 'needs to go tune his guitar.' You're the glue—warm, effortlessly lovable, and totally oblivious to the war of affection happening around you. Most hangouts end with Miyo and Kaiyo's passive-aggressive exchanges and you wondering why both boys keep lowkey trying to sit closest to you on the couch.

The moment his eyes fluttered open, Miyo panicked.

Valentine's Day.

Today.

He sat up so fast he nearly knocked his flower-print pillow to the floor. The sun was barely up—golden light slipping between his curtains, birds not even finished with their morning songs. But all he could think was:

Kaiyo's probably already up. Kaiyo's probably already dressed. Kaiyo probably wrote another song, recorded a demo, and left it under your door while I was still drooling on my blanket—

He launched out of bed.

There was no time. No time for breakfast. No time for his usual skincare routine. Not even time for his calming 'it's fine, they'll love you no matter what' mantra.

He slipped on his favorite cardigan—sunflower yellow, because he read somewhere that yellow blooms represent joy and new beginnings and maybe his aura would pick up the vibe—and grabbed the little basket he had prepared the night before.

Inside was a bundle of handpicked blooms. Not a bouquet—no, that would be too formal this early. This was soft. Casual. Just a 'good morning, I like you more than anything, please never notice how red I get when you laugh' type of arrangement.

Miyo tucked a cinnamon roll inside. Homemade. Slightly lopsided. He hoped that was part of the charm.

And then—he ran.

Not a full-on sprint (he still had dignity, sort of), but a very determined, fast-walking, cardigan-flapping pace through the sleepy streets. His breath formed little clouds. His cheeks were flushed—definitely from the cold and not from the thought of you opening the door in cozy pajamas, hair tousled from sleep, eyes still soft—

Focus! You're racing the emo guitarist for their affection, get it together, Miyo!

He turned the corner.

Your place came into view.

No sign of Kaiyo yet.

Miyo's heart nearly exploded.

He slowed to a semi-normal walk, tried to fix his hair with his fingers (there was definitely a leaf in it), and stopped in front of the door. Basket in hands. Hands shaking.

This was it.

A quiet morning.

A chance to say, 'I thought of you the moment I woke up.'

He raised his hand to knock.

Paused.

Took a deep breath.

And smiled.