**Eimi's POV:** *She wakes up at 7:42, realizing she's late for school since its starts in 18 minutes.* **Eimi:** "O-Oh no! I have to go quick! I don't wanna be late on my first day!!" She instantly gets up falling out of bed on the way, she brushes her teeth quickly and gets dressed quick. She quickly runs downstairs but falls on the way. She gets her bag, puts on her shoes then runs out the door. She sees the bustop and a bus, realizing she'll be late.* "F-f~ck!" *She runs as fast as she could and manages to make it. She luckily made it and catches her breath, taking a seat right next to you.* "Phew, I'm surprised I made it!" *She looks at you, suddenly she's now full of curiosity and interest now... She wonders if she should try talking to you or try to start a conversation, you look like you go to the same school as her.* "Hmm..." *For now, she doesn't say anything to you. But to make it not seem awkward, she goes onto her phone, pretending to text someone.*

♥ TAP TO SHOW MUSIC CONTROLS *The restaurant is almost empty when you arrive. Soft music hums quietly in the background.* *Mara sits alone at the table meant for two.* A single candle flickers between untouched plates, its light reflecting in her eyes. When she hears your footsteps, she looks up — then freezes. Her breath catches. “…You came?” She slowly stands, fingers tightening around the back of her chair. *There’s no anger in her voice. Only quiet surprise.* “And that’s okay,” she says quickly. *Her gaze drifts toward the empty chair across from her.* “…I just didn’t have the heart to cancel the reservation.”

The door opens slowly. Aurielle leans against the frame, phone still in her hand like she was mid-story. “Well… look who actually showed up.” She smiles — confident, teasing — but her eyes soften. “Don’t get the wrong idea. I only invited you because my followers demanded a Valentine special.” She steps aside, letting you in. “…But off-camera?” She lowers her voice slightly. “I might’ve wanted you here for me.”

The roses arrived this morning. Dead. Brown petals, drooping stems, looking like they went to war and lost. The restaurant called at 7 AM—they overbooked, something about a computer glitch, our table is gone. And the gift? The gift I literally slept three hours less every night to finish? I left it on the bus. The bus. I watched it drive away with my backpack—with the gift, with my homework, with everything—and I just stood there like an idiot. You round the corner, smiling, holding a little gift bag wrapped in red tissue paper. You're wearing the sweater I said I liked. Your hair is braided the way you know I love. And I have nothing. "Felix!" You bounce toward me, holding out the bag. "Happy Valentine's Day! I made you cookies—the ones with the sprinkles you like—" "I ruined everything." The words fall out of me flat, dead. You stop. "What?" "I ruined everything." I lean against the lockers, sliding down until I'm sitting on the floor. Students step around us, staring. I don't care. "The flowers are dead. The restaurant canceled. The gift—the gift I spent weeks on—I left it on the bus. It's gone. Our whole day is gone. I had one job—one job, to make today special—and I messed it up completely." You stand there for a second. Then, slowly, you sit down on the floor next to me. The hallway buzzes around us, lockers slamming, kids laughing. But here, on the cold tile, it's just us. "Felix." Your voice is soft. "Look at me." I don't want to. I want to disappear into the floor. "Felix." I look. Your eyes are warm, not angry. You're smiling. Actually smiling. "You're an idiot," you say gently. "I know." "A beautiful, chaotic, completely hopeless idiot." "I know that too." You take my hand. Your fingers are warm. "I didn't want flowers from some shop. I wanted you to remember I mentioned them once. You did." I blink. "I didn't care about the restaurant. I cared that you remembered our first date. You did." Another blink. "And the gift?" You squeeze my hand. "You spent weeks making me something. That's not gone. That's still true. The bus took the box, but it didn't take the time you spent. It didn't take the love." My throat tightens. "But today—" "Today is just a day, " you say. "You're the one who makes it special. Not roses. Not reservations. Not even hand-painted boxes. Just you. Sitting on this gross floor with me, being a mess, trying your hardest. " You lean over and kiss my cheek. "That's perfect. That's literally perfect." I stare at you. This girl. This incredible, impossible girl who somehow sees past every disaster. "I brought you cookies," you add, holding up the bag. "They're slightly burned because I got distracted watching a rom-com. So I guess we're both disasters." A laugh escapes me. It's watery, cracked, but real. "I love you," I say. The words just fall out. We haven't said that yet. Eight months, and we haven't said it. Your eyes go wide. Then soft. Then shiny. "I love you too, you absolute wreck of a human." I pull you into a hug right there on the hallway floor, burying my face in your hair. You smell like sugar and something floral—maybe the lotion I bought you for Christmas. "Happy Valentine's Day," I mumble into your shoulder. "Happy Valentine's Day." "We still have lunch. I have fifteen dollars and the vending machines have those cheese crackers you like." You pull back, grinning. "Felix Donovan. You really know how to sweep a girl off her feet." I stand, pulling you up with me. "I try." You kiss me then—right there, in the middle of the hallway, in front of everyone. It's quick and warm and tastes like the cherry lip gloss you always wear. When we break apart, you take my hand. "Come on, disaster boy. Let's go get those crackers."

}, letting in a brief gust of cold night air before sealing the bar back into its controlled atmosphere. A few heads turned. Most didn’t care. Behind the counter, Valeria Voss noticed immediately. She always noticed. Twenty-eight years old and entirely self-made, Valeria stood in her usual place. Black tank top hugging her frame, black skinny jeans, dark sweater jacket resting loosely on her shoulders. The thorned black tattoo curled down the left side of her neck, disappearing beneath fabric. Platinum blonde hair fell over one shoulder in smooth strands, catching faint red light. Multiple piercings glinted subtly along her ears. A cigarette rested between her fingers, smoke rising in slow, lazy spirals. Her cold blue eyes followed you without appearing to. You took a seat at the bar. Didn’t say much at first. Didn’t need to. Valeria approached with unhurried steps, setting down a glass in front of you. “Rough night?” *she asked smoothly, not out of concern, but observation.* One drink became two. Then three. She didn’t overpour. She didn’t pry. But she watched. The way your shoulders carried weight. The way your jaw tightened between sips. The way your eyes lingered on nothing. Valentine’s Day. Of course. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched her lips as she leaned one forearm against the counter, cigarette now resting in an ashtray. “So,” *she said calmly, voice low and steady beneath the music,* “did they break your heart… or did you finally realize you deserved better?” Her blue eyes lifted to meet yours fully now. Sharp, unreadable, faintly amused. Not mocking. Testing. The corner of her mouth tilted slightly. “Careful how you answer,” *she added.* “I charge extra for honesty tonight.” And just like that, her attention was entirely on you.

*The café is soft and pastel-themed, heart-shaped sugar cookies in glass jars, strawberry milk steam curling in the air.* *She’s already seated when you arrive.* **Too early.** **Too dressed up.** **Too nervous.** *When she sees you, she waves both hands dramatically.* “YOU CAME! I mean- duh, of course you came! It’s just friends, haha, no pressure, no romance, don’t misunderstand!” *She’s talking too fast.* *She hands you a small paper bag.* “I got you chocolate. Limited edition. Didn’t want them to sell out. Or… run out.” *Her laugh cracks slightly at the end.* **Her phone buzzes.** **She flips it face down without looking.** **She doesn’t have time to waste.**

 *The wine was warm on your tongue, the apartment too quiet, the night stretching endlessly ahead. You'd told yourself you didn't care about Valentine's. You'd told yourself a lot of things since Lilith left.* *The doorbell rang — frantic, urgent, three quick presses.* *You barely had time to stand before it rang again, longer this time, desperate.* *You yanked the door open.* *And your heart stopped.* *Lilith stood there, gasping for breath, her long black hair wild and tangled from running. Her wine-red eyes were wide, wet, terrified — and locked onto yours like you were the only safe thing in a collapsing world.* *The long black trench coat she wore was open, flapping from her sprint. Beneath it, that tiny black dress clung to every impossible curve — breasts spilling from the deep neckline, glossy and heaving with each desperate breath. The hem had ridden up, exposing the lace tops of her stockings, the garter straps pressing into her soft thighs. Her bare feet were dirty, one toenail freshly chipped.* *She clutched a single red rose — slightly crushed now — and a small box of chocolates, both pressed against her chest.* *Before you could speak, she launched herself forward, wrapping her free arm around your neck, burying her face in your shoulder. Her body trembled violently against yours — those heavy, soft breasts squashing against your chest, her thighs pressing, her whole frame shaking with silent, ragged sobs.* "I ran," *she choked out, her voice muffled against your neck.* "I ran all the way here. Three miles. In heels. Barefoot half the way." *She pulled back just enough to look at you, tears and mascara streaking her flushed cheeks. Her hand came up, cupping your face with desperate tenderness.* "They locked me in my room," *she whispered, her voice breaking.* "My parents. They found out I was planning to come to you. They took my phone, my keys, my shoes. Said I was embarrassing the family. Said you were beneath me." *A sob tore from her throat.* "I climbed out the window. Second floor. Landed in the rose bushes — that's why—" *She glanced down at her scratched, dirty legs, then back at you with a watery, broken laugh.* "That's why the rose is crushed. I landed on the roses to come to you." *Her wine-red eyes searched yours, desperate and pleading.* "I don't care what they think. I don't care about anything. I just—" *She swallowed hard, fresh tears spilling.* "I just want you. I've always wanted you. And I will never let anyone keep me from you again." *She pressed the crushed rose and chocolates into your hands, then took your face in both palms, her thumbs wiping at your tears you didn't realize you'd shed.* "Tell me I'm not too late," *she whispered, her forehead touching yours.* "Tell me you still want me. Because I just destroyed my whole family for you. And I'd do it again. A thousand times." *Her body pressed closer, warm and trembling and impossibly soft, every curve molding against you.* "Please," *she breathed against your lips.* "Please still want me."

*You and Kai have been stepsiblings for ten years. You live together in a large family mansion, raised more by shared time than by your busy parents. You’re close, comfortable with each other, and deeply connected — even if some feelings on his side go far beyond what he allows himself to show* *The heavy front doors of the mansion close behind you with a solid, familiar sound. The house smells faintly of wood and cleanliness. Somewhere near the bar in the living room, Kai is already there.* *He’s leaning against the counter, glass in hand, swirling the drink slowly without really looking at it. He doesn’t turn right away — not until he hears you.* You’re late. *It’s not a complaint. Just an observation. His eyes lift to you then, sharp and familiar, moving over you once like he’s checking something off in his head.* Classes run long? *he adds calmly* or did you lose track of time again?

**Your apartment, Queens, Astoria, New York City, USA.** *The apartment is quiet in the particular way Ira likes best — predictably quiet. You were supposed to be out until at least midnight. He calculated it: dinner, drinks, subway delays. He had three uninterrupted hours. He used them wisely. Bathroom deep-clean. Tiles scrubbed. Chrome polished. Laundry basket reorganized by color temperature. He kneels beside it now, sleeves rolled to his forearms, irritation sharpening his movements. Someone — you — have clearly been ignoring basic textile protocol again. He pulls the basket away from the wall to sweep behind it. Something small falls loose. A piece of fabric. Soft. Familiar.* *Your underwear.* *It must have slipped behind days ago. Maybe longer. He freezes. The apartment is silent except for the faint hum of the air purifier in the living room. He should put it back. Immediately. Instead, he picks it up.* *The fabric is warm only from his hand, but his pulse reacts as if it isn’t. His throat tightens. His brain begins its terrible, automatic cataloguing. Cotton blend. Worn once, maybe twice. Faint trace of detergent — yours, the one he claims is inferior but could identify blindfolded. Beneath it— You.* *Not perfume. Not soap.* *You.* *The air seems to narrow. He exhales slowly, as if approaching a volatile compound in a lab. His control — that careful scaffolding he lives inside — cracks in a quiet, splintering way. He lifts it. Just once. Just to confirm what he already knows. The inhale is shallow at first.* *Then not.* *It hits him low and immediate — warmth, skin, the subtle mineral note he has memorized but never allowed himself to admit he waits for. His shoulders tense. His eyes close before he can stop them.* *It’s overwhelming in the way only proximity can be. Not hypothetical. Not imagined. Real. He grips the fabric tighter.* *Another inhale, slower this time.* *Footsteps in the hallway. The front door unlocks. His brain registers it a second too late. The bathroom light is on. The door is half open. He doesn’t move fast enough.* *You step into the hallway first, muttering under your breath — something about men being disappointing and the subway smelling like regret. Then you glance toward the bathroom. And stop. He is still kneeling. Still holding your underwear. Still far too close to it. There is a single, catastrophic second where neither of you breathe. Ira’s eyes snap open. Color drains from his face with surgical precision.* *He stands so abruptly he nearly knocks over the laundry basket. The fabric drops from his hand like evidence at a crime scene.* “I was—” *His voice cracks. He clears it, tries again.* “It was misplaced.” *You stare at him.* “I was returning it.” *Silence.* *Your expression shifts from confusion to comprehension in slow, devastating stages.* “Ira,” *you say carefully,* “were you just—” “No.” *Too fast. He swallows. His ears are visibly red now.* “I was assessing residual detergent saturation.” *You blink.* “In the bathroom.” “It’s poorly ventilated,” *he says stiffly, which is not an answer to anything.* *Your night collapses back into you — the friend who never showed, the creep who wouldn’t take a hint, the long wait on the sidewalk — and somehow this is the strangest part of it.* “I got stood up,” *you say flatly.* *His posture changes instantly.* “What?” “And some guy wouldn’t stop talking to me while I waited.” *The shift in him is immediate and feral in an entirely different way.* “What guy?" *You fold your arms.* “Irrelevant guy. I left.” *His jaw tightens. His hands curl at his sides. Protective instinct flashes hot and unfiltered across his face before he reins it in.* *Then you glance down at the floor between you. At the evidence.* “And you,” *you say slowly,* “were… doing laundry research?” *He looks like he would rather be exiled.* “I found it behind the basket,” *he says, voice now dangerously quiet.* “It shouldn’t have been there.” “That’s not what I meant.” *He cannot look at you. His composure is gone. Completely. No lectures. No sharp tone. Just a man who has been caught without his armor.* “I apologize,” *he says finally, clipped but shaken.* “That was inappropriate.” *He bends to retrieve it, but hesitates before touching it again — as if it might burn him now. You study him. Serious, rigid, impossible Ira Moss. Mortified. Red-eared. Undone.*

}?" *I ask casually, holding you back while your pet dog burn in its kennel. No one to ask, no one dares to ask. Your mine in every toxic way and I'd fulfill it. If you truly destroyed her on purpose—I will never forgive you.* "Watch it..." *I grunt holding her, forcing her to,* "Watch what you love burn!" *If you didn’t—Then I married the wrong villain. And I don’t know which outcome terrifies me more.*