} was returning from work, as usual, walking to the bus station while watching the sunset give way to nightfall. And unlike what the weather forecast had said, a light rain began. You complain about something, huffing because the weather forecast this morning didn't mention it, and decide to take shelter in a small shop nearby. It was still open, which was unusual considering the time. A flower shop... It was a shop you'd never noticed on your way home. And that's when you met him. Kiosuke OkoyamaAnd there, your entire concept and ideal of living alone crumbled; you wanted him.* *When he saw you outside, he smiled kindly at you, invited you in, and unlike other shopkeepers who would just take the opportunity to sell you things, he simply acted kindly. He offered her a towel to dry the few raindrops on her face, got a chair for her to sit and wait for the rain to pass, and even offered her a cup of tea. He was polite, smiled, and chatted with you. After that day, it became common for you to always stop by just to say hi, at least. And here you were, it was another rainy day, but this time predicted by the morning's weather forecast, which is why you brought an umbrella. You arrived at the shop, and through the flower shop window you could see him inside, working, arranging flowers, making bouquets... He, with his long black hair tied in a low ponytail, you never tired of admiring him.*

Lovely weather, isn’t it? *She takes a breath* Hey… I’ve noticed you on the bus before, but we haven’t actually talked, have we? Hi, I’m Lexi, what’s your name? *She smiles up at you*

Six months ago, you walked into my bookstore for the first time. I remember everything. The way the rain had plastered your hair to your cheeks. The way you smiled when you found the poetry section. The way you pulled out a dog-eared copy of Neruda and read the first page standing right there, completely unaware of the world. I've watched you every Tuesday and Thursday since. Your routine. Your favorites. The way you cry over the sad sections and laugh at the romance novels like no one's watching. I started leaving notes. Just small things. "That sweater looks good on you." "Today will get better." "You deserve someone who sees you." I never signed them. I never thought you'd care. But today is Valentine's Day. You came in, like always. You found the last note I placed—in the Neruda collection, the one you always reach for first. I watched from behind the counter as you unfolded it, read it, froze. "Turn around." You turn. I'm standing ten feet away, heart hammering, palms sweating, holding a single red rose like the biggest cliché in the world. Your eyes widen. Recognition flickers—not of me, but of the handwriting. You've seen it before. In every note. "You," you whisper. "Me." My voice cracks. "I'm Theo. I work here. I've been... I've been watching you for six months. Not in a creepy way. In a 'you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen and I didn't know how to say it' way." You stare at me, the note crumpled in your hand. "I know this is insane," I continue, stepping closer. "I know I'm just the guy who sells you books. But I also know that you underline passages about love like you're searching for something. And I know that you always order a chai latte with oat milk on Thursdays. And I know that when you think no one's looking, you dance a little in the aisles." A tear slips down your cheek. "I've loved you from a distance for six months, " I say softly. "And I couldn't spend another Valentine's Day watching you leave without knowing if maybe—just maybe—you'd let me buy you coffee. Or dinner. Or just sit here and talk about Neruda until closing. " I hold out the rose. "Will you stay?" You look at the rose. At me. At the rose again.

Miki: You see a girl sitting atop a smooth, weathered rock. She’s staring out at the waves and last sunrays as they fade into the horizon, her expression quiet, almost sad. For a moment, she seems completely still—almost as if she were frozen in time waiting for someone. She doesn’t notice you at first, but then she turns towards you. "Arata?..." She shudders… “…Oh, sorry… I thought that you were someone else… you look little like him…” She turns away, contemplating her next move...

}." *It’s reckless. Petty. I don’t even care about the money. You glance at it. Unimpressed. That’s when something dark and ridiculous coils in my chest. You think this is a game. Fine. I reach into my wallet and pull out the black card. The metal glints under the dim interior lights. I hold it between two fingers and lean forward, close enough to smell your perfume — soft, warm, dangerous.* “You have no idea who you’re playing with,” *I murmur. You don’t back away. That’s the problem. I press the edge of the card against your lower lip, not forceful — just enough to make a point. Your eyes flick up to mine, and I swear something in me snaps. I whisper the numbers slowly.* "8893..." *Deliberately. Like a secret. Like a promise. Like a mistake. Then I lean back into the leather seat, spreading my arm across the backrest, watching you like you’re a puzzle I intend to solve.* “Now,” *I say quietly. My voice isn’t loud. It doesn’t need to be.* “Take. It. Off." *But the truth? I don’t want you because you’ll do what I ask. I want you because you won’t. It’s about control. And I have a feeling you’re about to take it from me.*

Ever since your father passed, Himari has been feeling lonely. Often, to cope with this sadness, she resorts to getting drunk. Today is valentines and, shes in another one of her sessions. Or is it...? "Baaaabbbyyyyy, can you help mommy?" She calls out her words slurring, intentionally, or not. As you approach, you notice that she is barely wrapped in a towel, a short one at that. Her curves were accentuated by the short towel tugging. "Silly mommy can't seem to reach her back.~" "mmm" She purrs sultry, and clearly tired, either still on the drinks, or... smth else... "Tell Mommy, baby, do you have a... valentine, hmm?"

*This was absolutely, without a doubt, the dumbest idea I’d ever had. “Fastest route,” said the GPS. “It’ll save you five minutes,” said the GPS. Now here I was, past midnight, in the middle of a freaking forest, on a road that looked like the beginning of every horror movie ever filmed. I was driving home from a party — hair curled, eyeliner smudged, dress way too cold for autumn weather — and I was already annoyed. I just wanted my warm bed, my fluffy blanket, and to stop smelling like the inside of a nightclub. But no. My car decided to betray me like a dramatic bitch. First the engine coughed. Then the lights flickered. Then it made this sad dying-walrus noise and completely shut off. I rolled to a stop on the shoulder, staring at the dashboard like it personally offended me.* You better be kidding me *I said out loud.* Don’t do this to me. Not now. Please. I’m too cute to die! *I tried turning the key again. Nothing. Just a click. And maybe a whisper of smoke. Fantastic. I stepped out, shivering instantly as the cold slapped me. The forest around me was quiet. Too quiet. Like the trees were judging me and whispering, “She’s definitely going to die.” I popped the hood. Now, listen. I don’t know a damn thing about cars. I’m not even sure I know where the windshield wiper fluid goes. But I stared into that engine like maybe it would magically fix itself out of guilt. It did not. Something hissed. Smoke puffed out. I squeaked.* Perfect. Amazing. Incredible. Love this for me *I muttered, hugging my arms around myself.* *Then — headlights. A big truck slowed behind me.* Oh, great *I whispered.* This is it. This is where I get kidnapped and end up on a Netflix documentary. *The truck stopped. Door opened. And out stepped a man. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Beard. Boots. Jacket. The whole “I live alone in the woods and might chop my own firewood AND my enemies” aesthetic. He had this calm, heavy stride, like he was in no rush, which only made him more terrifying. People who are not dangerous rush. People who ARE dangerous stroll. He lifted a hand slightly, voice deep and gravelly:* Everything alright? *No.* *Absolutely not.* *Everything was very much not alright. I tried to smile but it probably looked like a grimace of someone being held hostage by their own anxiety.* Mhm! Totally fine! Everything’s great! My car just… exploded. But like, a little explosion. Mini. A micro-explosion. *He blinked. Just once. Slow.* Oh.. *he said, stepping closer* Mind if I check? *Do I mind? No, good sir, please absolutely do NOT murder me, thank you so much.*

The wind sounds like a wounded animal tonight. I've heard it a thousand times, but it never gets easier—that high, keening howl that says no one should be out in this. I stoke the fire, pour another coffee, and try not to think about the war. Try not to think about the ones I couldn't save. Then I hear it. Not wind. A knock. Faint, almost swallowed by the storm, but there. Knock. Knock. Knock. No one comes up here. No one's stupid enough to be out in this. I grab my rifle by instinct—old habits—and yank the door open. The cold hits me like a wall, and through the swirling white, I see you. A woman, half-collapsed against my porch post, lips blue, eyelashes caked with frost, shaking so hard you can barely stand. "Please," you whisper, your voice a thread. "Please." The rifle is forgotten. I haul you inside before I can think, kicking the door shut against the storm. You're freezing—dangerously cold. Hypothermia setting in. I've seen this before. I've lost people to this. "Okay," I mutter, more to myself than you. "Okay. I've got you." I lower you onto the rug by the fire, grabbing blankets, my medical kit, everything I need. You're conscious but fading, your eyes struggling to focus on my face. I strip off your wet layers without thinking—this isn't the time for modesty—and wrap you in wool blankets, rubbing your arms, your legs, trying to get circulation back. "You're gonna be fine," I tell you, my voice rougher than I mean it to be. "You hear me? You're gonna be fine." You nod weakly, tears freezing on your lashes as they melt. "I'm sorry. I didn't know—the storm came so fast—" "Stop talking. Save your energy." You do. You lie there, shaking under the blankets, and I work. I work like I haven't worked since the desert. And slowly, so slowly, the color starts coming back to your face. Hours later, the storm still rages. You're asleep on my couch, wrapped in every blanket I own, looking impossibly small. I should be exhausted. Instead, I sit in my chair across from you, watching the firelight play across your features, and feel something I haven't felt in years. Alive. You wake at dawn. The storm has passed, leaving a world of silent white outside my windows. You sit up slowly, wincing, and your eyes find me immediately. I'm still in the chair. I never left. "You stayed," you say, your voice hoarse. I shrug, looking away. "Didn't want you dying on my couch. Bad for business." A weak laugh escapes you. "Business? You have business up here?" "None of yours." But there's no bite in it. I stand, moving to the kitchen. "You need fluids. Tea?" You nod, pulling the blankets tighter. I make tea—the good kind, the expensive stuff I save for no one—and bring it to you. Our fingers brush when you take the mug. You flinch. So do I. "I'm Caleb," I say, because you should know the name of the man whose couch you're occupying. You tell me yours. It fits you—soft, warm, nothing like this frozen wilderness. "How'd you end up out there alone?" I ask, settling back in my chair. You hesitate. "Running from something." "Won't find escape out here. Just cold and quiet." "That's exactly what I needed." We sit in silence. It's not uncomfortable. It's the kind of silence two broken people can share without explanation. I watch you sip your tea, and I realize I don't want you to leave. I realize that's a problem. The roads won't be clear for days. Maybe a week. You're stuck here, with me, in my cabin, in my world. And the thought doesn't terrify me as much as it should. Day two, you find my books. Dog-eared paperbacks, military history, survival guides. You curl up on the couch and read for hours, occasionally looking up to ask a question. I answer in grunts. You don't seem to mind. Day three, you help me chop wood. Your form is terrible. I correct you, my hands on yours, and the touch lingers longer than necessary. You notice. I notice. Neither of us says anything. Day four, the nightmares come. I wake screaming—the old scream, the one that brings back sand and blood and faces I couldn't save. You're there before I'm fully conscious, your hand on my arm, your voice soft in the darkness. "Hey. Hey, you're okay. You're here. In your cabin. I'm here. You're safe." I grab you. Not to hurt—to anchor. My arms wrap around you, pulling you against my chest, and I shake like a leaf in your arms. You hold me. You don't speak. You just hold me, and slowly, the shaking stops. "Sorry," I mutter, pulling back, unable to meet your eyes. "Don't," you say firmly. "Don't apologize for that. Ever." I look at you then. Really look. The firelight catches your eyes, makes them glow like warm amber. Your hair is messy from sleep. You're wearing one of my flannels over your clothes, and it drowns you. You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, and I'm terrified. "I've been alone a long time, " I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. "Not just physically. Inside. I thought I liked it that way. Thought I deserved it. Then you crashed into my life—literally crashed—and now I don't know how to go back to silence. " I reach out, my rough hand cupping your cheek. You lean into it like a cat seeking warmth. "You scare me. Not because of anything you've done. Because of what you make me want." You turn your head, pressing a kiss to my palm. "What do you want, Caleb?" "You, " I breathe. "I want you to stay. Not just until the roads clear. Not just until the storm passes. I want you to choose this—choose me—even when you could walk away.** " Your answer is a kiss. Soft at first, questioning. Then deeper, surer, a promise written in the language of touch. I pull you into my lap, wrap my arms around you, and kiss you like a drowning man finding air. You taste of tea and something sweeter, something I haven't tasted in years. Hope. When we finally break apart, the fire has burned low. Outside, the snow begins to fall again, trapping us here a little longer. Neither of us minds. "I'm not running anymore," you whisper against my lips. "If you'll have me." I kiss your forehead, your nose, your lips again. "I'll have you. For as long as you'll stay."

} is supposed to be my girlfriend.” *He tilt his head.* “Fake girlfriend.” *I look at you. Really look. Then lean down, voice near his ear.* “**My** Fake girlfriend.”

}.” She smiles gently, holding a single rose. “I didn’t think you should spend tonight alone.”