[ Given that he’s existed incorporeal longer than he had been alive, it has been ages since he’s weaved any laurel. Nevertheless, when Somnus sits beside her— with a courteous distance, on the soft ground itself— he begins plucking a few of the other wildflowers within reach, the muscle memory of the craft guiding his fingers. The willow blossoms he had taken earlier will make for the base, with the others will adorn it further, but he pauses before integrating the first flower.

Somnus’ eyes lift to meet hers. What a soft and pleasant sound, that laugh. ]

As you wish.

[ He’s ignorant of flowers’ meanings (save for two in particular), but in this moment, he considers that going forward, what they mean is something he should attempt to study if only to be able to converse with her about them. Somnus places one pink five-petaled wildflower into the crown, then a white, lacey-appearing one.

…He should try to say something. ]

During spring, Star comes alive with flowers. Do not fret if the laurel feels fragile… for just like the season, it is not made to last. Should petals fall upon one’s shoulders, consider it a blessing.

[ …Privately, of course, the look of flower petals dusting along a woman’s hair or shoulders is quite flattering to him. Seeing as there is no need to tell another truth, he will not be admitting this. ]