The flowers haven't held up as well as he would have liked. Clutched in his fist as he trudged the miles to her door, they're stained with hope, crumpled, the colours a little tired. He chews his lip as he looks at the bruised petals with nervous eyes. But they're alive, they still say I've come home as he stands there, heart in mouth.
She opens the door, tired eyes and hair like corn; the flowers fall to the floor as her arms go around his neck and she laughs against his lips, because he needs both hands for this.