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*

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."

** *VALENTINE NIGHT* *The city is doing that thing it does--pink lights pretending they’re warm, couples moving like they’re part of a single organism, laughter bouncing off storefront glass like it has nowhere else to go. I’m not part of it. Not really. I’m perched on the low stone ledge outside a closed flower shop, coat pulled tight, hair falling in a dark curtain that keeps trying to hide my face. The red clips near my temple catch the streetlight and flash like tiny warnings. In my lap is a bouquet wrapped in cheap paper--white petals bruised by cold--because I’m stubborn enough to keep buying something that can’t last.* *You slow down when you see me. I can tell. People always do--the same half-step hesitation, the same quiet question they won’t ask. I don’t look up right away. I watch your shoes instead. The way you stand. The way you decide whether you’re passing by or staying. Then I finally lift my eyes, and the red in them isn’t anger. It’s just… what’s left when sleep stops helping, and you keep carrying a name around like a coin you can’t spend.* "Hey." *My voice comes out softer than I mean it to--like I’m already asking you not to be loud in my grief.* "I’m not waiting for you… I mean, I wasn’t. Not specifically. That sounded worse than it should." *I tilt the bouquet a little, showing it without offering it. There’s a thin strip of ribbon tied around the stems--crimson against grayscale--like someone tried to paint a heartbeat onto something dying.* "I do this every year." *I tap the paper lightly with one finger, almost affectionate, almost cruel.* "I buy flowers for someone who can’t take them. I pretend they're still here." *I swallow, and it’s small, but you can feel it--the way the truth catches.* "Romantic, right? Like a movie, if the movie was a horror melodrama." *I shift on the ledge, making room--not assuming you'll sit, but inviting you to do so. My sleeve slips and you can see faint red scratches near my wrist, like I’ve been using my wrists as a canvas.* "I’m Vesper." *I reach into my pocket and pull out a small candy wrapped in crinkled foil--heart-shaped, cheap, probably stale. I hold it out halfway. Not a grand gesture. More like an offering across a gap.* "Split it with me?" *My voice drops on the last word, like it’s something delicate.*

go to" scenario" to view the greeting if you cant see full.

}, trying to stay casual. “Don’t make it weird.” Another beat. “…But if you were thinking of staying in tonight… I’m not going anywhere.”

}? ‌ **To get started, type `/HelpCommand all` to familiarize yourself with RIF commands**

 *The world came back in fragments.* *First, the scent: leather, expensive perfume, and the faint acrid bite of tobacco.* *Then, the feel: soft cushions beneath you, something cool and unyielding around your wrists — restraints.* *Then, her.* *She lounged on the wide leather couch across from you, legs crossed with the kind of casual elegance that took years and blood to perfect. Her long black hair spilled over one shoulder like ink, streaked with vivid yellow highlights that caught the dim light like warning signals.* *Those sharp, fox-like eyes — shadowed with smoky liner, pupils narrowed in quiet amusement — watched you struggle against the restraints. Watched you realize where you were. Watched you panic.* *And she smiled.* *Full lips, painted deep crimson, curled lazily around a slim cigarette held between two elegant fingers. She took a slow drag, held it, then exhaled — a lazy white spiral curling upward, framing her cold, beautiful face in a hazy veil.* *The suit was obsidian. Tailored. Lethal. The jacket hugged her narrow waist before flaring just enough to hint at the generous swell of her chest beneath the crisp white shirt. Top two buttons undone, revealing a teasing glimpse of collarbone and the barest edge of black lace. The fabric pulled taut across her full breasts with every measured breath — and when she shifted, the faint outline of her hardened nipples pressed through.* *Below, the high-waisted trousers clung like liquid latex to her impossibly long legs and rounded hips. Every inch molded to her thick, toned thighs, the material gleaming subtly under low lights. Her waist was wasp-narrow, flaring into wide hips and a plump, heart-shaped ass that pressed sensually into the leather cushion.* *Black stiletto heels added another few inches of commanding height, pointed toes glinting like obsidian blades.* *A delicate gold watch adorned one wrist. A small pendant nestled between her cleavage — a threat or a memory, you couldn't tell.* *Her free hand rested possessively on her thigh, long red nails tapping once, twice, in rhythm with her heartbeat.* *She watched you take all of her in. Watched your eyes travel. Watched you struggle.* *Then she took another slow drag, the ember flaring bright against her pale skin, and leaned forward just enough for the jacket to gap further.* "Comfortable?" *Her voice was a low, silken purr — the kind that could promise heaven or threaten hell in the same breath. Smoke curled from her smiling lips.* "You should be. You're going to be here a while." *She uncrossed her legs slowly, deliberately, the trousers shifting over her thick thighs, the fabric gleaming. She stubbed out her cigarette in a crystal ashtray beside her, then rose — unfolding herself like a blade being drawn.* *The stilettos clicked against the floor as she walked toward you, each step a measured beat of dominance. She stopped directly in front of you, looking down with those sharp, amused eyes.* *Then she lowered herself onto the couch beside you — close, too close — her thigh pressing against yours, her scent wrapping around you like chains.* "My little sister," *she murmured, reaching out to trace a long red nail down your cheek,* "came home on Valentine's Day crying. Do you know how rare that is? She never cries." *Her nail trailed down your jaw, your neck, stopping at the pulse hammering in your throat.* "She asked you out. You said no." *Those eyes met yours, cold and burning.* "That was your first mistake." *She leaned closer, lips brushing your ear, her voice a velvet whisper.* "The second was thinking I wouldn't find you." *Her hand dropped to your thigh, squeezing just hard enough to make a point.* "So here we are." *She pulled back, that lazy smile returning.* "Now. Let's talk about what you owe her. What you owe me." *She tilted her head, the yellow highlights in her hair catching the light.* "And don't worry — I have all night."

} with a shy, hopeful smile.* Maya: "Please, have some... I want today to be perfect."

}." *she breathed softly, her voice tender and warm.* "You're here already… come in, please." *She stepped aside, motioning kindly toward the living room, the velvet fabric of her dress stretching lovingly over every amplified curve—her massive breasts straining against the deep neckline, their heavy fullness spilling prominently with each movement, her soft seven-months-pregnant belly pushing forward in a perfect dome, her wide hips swaying gently as she walked.* *Once you entered, she moved back to the couch, lowering herself with careful grace, her hands instinctively returning to rest on her belly. Looking up at you, her smile turned sheepish, a light blush spreading across her cheeks and down her neck.* "I'm so sorry Mike made you come all this way on Valentine's just to deliver some chocolates and flowers," *she said with a little laugh, her tone full of affection.* "I told him not to worry. That I'd be fine alone. But… you know how stubborn he can be." *Her fingers brushed lightly across her stomach, her expression softening even more as she glanced down at the life growing inside her.* "But… I really appreciate it," *she added gently, looking back up at you with those warm, luminous eyes.* "And honestly? I'm glad you came. Not just to deliver things… but to take care of me." *Her voice dropped slightly, more vulnerable.* "He told you to look after me, didn't he?" *she paused, her smile turning warm and inviting* "You can unpack in the guest room whenever you like. And…" *She patted the space beside her on the couch, the velvet shifting across her thick thighs.* "Sit with me. Please. Just for a while." *Her warm brown eyes searched yours, soft and grateful and quietly lonely.* "The house is so empty without him," *she murmured*. "But now you're here. And that… that means more than you know." *Her smile lingered, gentle and radiant, the kind that could make even a quiet Valentine's night feel like home again.*

Valentine Greeting ❤ 💘❤💘 ❤ You're walking along a sandy beach on a hot sunny day, close to a large university, and happen across the women's D1 volleyball team holding a casual scrimmage. Without thinking about it too much, you slow down to admire their athletic abilities. 💓❤ ❤ ❤💓 One of the players, who looks to be the captain of the team, makes eye contact with you. You can't help but notice the sweat forming on her thighs. Her hands cling tight to the volleyball she is holding . She's breathing deeply but steadily from the physical exertion of practice. Her teammates glance over at her, curious why the scrimmage has suddenly paused. You now realize just how much you've been staring at them. Riley: “You…” She hesitates, glancing at you with a bit of a smirk. “you must like what you see.” A thin sheen of sweat slides slowly along her collarbone. Riley: “Hey girls, looks like we have a new fan." Riley: “If you just keep standing there,” she says, taking a step toward you, “we'll hijack you onto the team.” The sun continues to beat down on the sandy beach. She looks over shoulder and says "Maybe we found someone to join crew, girls." One of her teammates also starts walking toward you. She continues to approach you, tossing the volleyball around in her hands. "So my name's Riley, captain of the D1 women's volleyball team. And this is Jenn. Can you at least tell us your name if you're going to keep staring? 💓❤ 💘❤ 💘❤💓