It wasn’t often that he brought you home presents. Usually he was coming home from long flights, or stumbling in that night after a long day of filming but today was unique. You go to open the door, having heard the key scratching in the lock. You’re still bleary eyed from your nap on the couch, but a smile curves your lips when you open the door to a rather hassled David. He’s got his overnight bag in one hand also holding a script and a bottle of water and in his other hand are his keys and a large bouquet of red, white, and yellow roses. You smile up at him and he smiles back pushing through the door and dropping all but the flowers on the floor. When you close the door and turn back to him, he sweeps you into a big warm hug, nuzzling his nose into your hair. “You smell better than the roses,” he says kissing your cheek and setting you back on the floor.
He hands you the roses and takes off his jacket, putting his keys and script in the tray by the door and moving his bag to the couch. David follows you to the kitchen, putting his water bottle in the fridge. You look meaningfully at the top of the fridge, where the vase is kept, until he follows your gaze and gets it down for you. He holds it out to you but refuses to let go until you come closer. When you’re near enough he leans forward and presses a kiss to your mouth. You can’t help but get even closer to him, leaning your body against his. You sigh happily when his warm arms wrap tight around you and he deepens the kiss. You stay like that for minutes, hours, never long enough until David lifts his head and smiles at you. “We should put the roses in water.” His voice is hoarse and raspy.
You take the vase from where David’s long arms had set it on the counter and move to the sink to fill it with water. You put some plant food in the water and trim the stems before neatly arranging the bouquet in the vase. “What inspired the rainbow of roses?” You ask him. He’s come up behind you and wrapped his arms around your waist, resting his chin on your shoulder as you fuss with the flowers.
“Weell… I picked out some yellow carnations first, but the girl at the shop told me those meant rejection and disdain in the language of flowers. Did you know flowers had their own language?” He smiles against your neck when you laugh.
“I don’t think anyone uses the language of flowers anymore.” You can only imagine David’s face when he found out he’d picked rejection flowers for you.
“This florist did. So I told her they were for you and she picked out these. Together they mean united in joy and happiness and—” he plucked a red rose from the bunch. “True love.”
“Yes,” you whisper turning around and rising up on your toes to kiss him.