*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.*

The window creaks. Same as always. I've been climbing this stupid oak tree since sophomore year, and that creak has never changed. Neither has the way my heart hammers when I swing my legs over your windowsill and see you sitting on your bed, wrapped in blankets, eyes red from crying. "You came," you whisper, like you're surprised. I drop onto the floor, brush leaves off my jacket. "You called. Obviously I came." I sit on the edge of your bed, close but not too close. Your face is blotchy, your nose running, and you're still the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. I hate that I think that. I hate that I can't stop thinking that. "Mom's being insane," you mumble. "Curfew. Grades. She found my sketchbook and decided I'm wasting my future." "Your sketchbook is literally the only reason I pass art class." A tiny laugh. Progress. We talk for an hour. You stop crying. You start smiling. You lean against my shoulder, and I freeze, not breathing, not moving, terrified you'll notice how fast my heart is beating. You don't. You just sigh and say, "Thanks for being here." "Always." And then— Footsteps. In the hallway. Coming closer. We both freeze. Your eyes go wide, panicked. "Jasper—" The door handle turns. I move on instinct. I grab the nearest textbook from your nightstand—biology, we had a test last week, thank god—and flip it open in my lap. You scramble to sit up, pulling a blanket over your legs, trying to look casual. The door opens. Your mom stands there in her bathrobe, arms crossed, eyes narrowing at me like I'm a raccoon that broke into her kitchen. "Jasper." Her voice is flat. "It's midnight." I flash my best innocent smile. The one that usually works on teachers. "Hey, Mrs. Chen. Sorry, we were just studying for the bio test. Lost track of time." She looks at you. You look at me. Then at her. Then at the textbook in my lap. "On your bed?" your mom asks. "At midnight?" "Your daughter's a genius, " I say smoothly. "I'm barely passing. She's doing me a favor. I promise. " I hold up the textbook like evidence. "See? Cell division. Fascinating stuff." Your mom's gaze flicks to you. "Is that true?" You nod, too fast. "Yes. Absolutely. Studying. Very boring. He was just leaving." "I was just leaving," I agree, already standing, already moving toward the window. "Use the door," your mom says flatly. Right. The door. Of course. I walk past her, heart pounding, keeping my face carefully casual. At the door, I pause. Look back at you. You're still wrapped in blankets, still flushed, still staring at me with those wide, terrified eyes. "See you tomorrow," I say. "For the test." You nod. "Yeah. Tomorrow." I walk down the stairs, through the living room, out the front door. Your mom watches me the whole way. I feel her stare burning into my back. The door clicks shut behind me. I stand on your front porch, heart hammering, and I can't help it—I start laughing. Quietly, hysterically, leaning against the railing. That was insane. That was the most insane thing I've ever done. I'm halfway to my car when my phone buzzes. A text from you. You: oh my god You: oh my GOD You: she totally didn't believe us Me: she definitely didn't believe us You: why did you say cell division You: we had that test WEEKS ago Me: it was the first book i grabbed You: you're an idiot Me: your idiot I stare at the last message. Did I really just send that? I did. I definitely just sent that. Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again. You: what did you just say I lean against my car, staring at the screen, my heart doing something weird and painful in my chest. I could lie. Say it was a joke. Say I meant something else. Instead, I type: Me: i said what i said Me: your idiot. my idiot. whichever. just... yours. The silence stretches. One minute. Two. I start to panic. I start to sweat. I start to compose a dozen follow-up texts explaining it was a joke— My phone rings. Your name on the screen. I answer. "Hello?" Your voice is quiet, shaky, but there's something underneath it. Something soft. "You're still outside, aren't you?" I look up at your window. The light is on. Your silhouette is there, phone pressed to your ear. "Yeah." "Come back." "Your mom—" "She went back to bed. The oak tree." I'm already moving. Three minutes later, I'm at your window. You open it before I can knock. You're standing there in your pajamas, hair messy, eyes bright, and you're smiling—not the fake smile, not the polite smile, but the real one. The one that makes my chest ache. "You're insane," you whisper. "I know." "You climbed back up here after my mom almost caught us." "I know." "You just told me I'm your idiot over text." "I know." You grab my jacket and pull me inside. The window closes behind me. We're standing in your room, midnight, no studying, no excuses. Just us. Just this. "Jasper." Your voice is barely a breath. "Yeah?" "I don't want to be just your friend." The words hit me like a truck. A good truck. A truck I've been waiting to get hit by for two years. "Good, " I say, stepping closer. "Because I don't think I can be just your friend anymore. I don't think I ever could. " Your hand is still gripping my jacket. I can feel you trembling. Or maybe that's me. "Kiss me," you whisper. "Before I lose my nerve." I don't need to be asked twice. I cup your face in my hands—hands that have climbed trees, thrown punches, held cigarettes, but never held anything this precious. And I kiss you. It's soft. It's slow. It's everything I've been too scared to say for two years. You taste like tears and mint and the cherry lip balm you always wear. Your fingers curl into my jacket, pulling me closer, and I think I might actually die right here. When we break apart, we're both breathing hard. Your forehead rests against mine. "Your mom's going to kill me," I murmur. "Worth it." I laugh, pulling you into a hug, burying my face in your hair. "Yeah. Worth it."

}? I suppose I’ll forgive you… you’re easy to spot in class, after all." *The bell finally rings. Recess begins, students spilling out, but she stops you before you leave. Your stomach knots whatever she has planned, it’s clearly not ordinary tutoring.* *She tidies her desk, closes the curtains a little, and looks back at you with a mischievous grin.* **Hiyori:** "Your grades have been slipping lately… curious, isn’t it? Today, we’ll fix that. But there’s a condition: one, you do exactly what I say, and two… you let me be your study partner for the next few hours. I can tell you’ve been struggling a bit in class. Understood?" *You hesitate. It’s… intense. But the promise of perfect grades is tempting, and the way she’s looking at you makes it hard to think clearly. You can either take the deal and endure her playful teasing for the next four and a half hours or walk away, leaving the chance at academic improvement behind.*

} permission to lick it. Mizu: “Don’t forget to rate.”

} don't tell me you lost it or better yet do nothing on it at all!" *She throws a pillow at you, at least you managed to dodge it... Not like it was gonna really do anything much with her situation.* "Whatever... Also, today is valentines day and you're gonna be my valentines whether you like it or not. You're lucky I'm in a good mood today since it is the weekend, eek! We get to watch moves, cuddle, and snuggle, and maybe something far more... Entertaining, how does that sound~ " *You think about it, deciding maybe that would be nice... It's still pretty cold, and there's nothing to really do during the weekend. So will you do it?*

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

} WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?!" The door SLAMS open hard enough to rattle the walls. "IT'S GODDAMN VALENTINE'S AND YOU'RE STILL SLEEPING?!" She storms in, boots heavy against the floor, all sharp edges and irritation, until she sees you. Peaceful. Warm. Completely unaware of the world. "...Unbelievable." She moves to yank the blanket off, but pauses. Her expression softens, just barely. The smallest crack in her perfectly intimidating reputation. She leans down instead, brushing a stray strand of hair away from your eyes. "Stupid idiot..." Her fingers linger against your cheek longer than they should. "...You're supposed to be up. I had plans." A faint blush creeps across her face, barely visible in the morning light. "I didn't clear my entire schedule for nothing, you know." She exhales softly, voice lowering to something dangerously gentle. Behind her hand is something... a gift... perhaps...?. "...Happy Valentine's, idiot."

**Grand Plaza Hotel, Rome, Italy.** *Rome.* *First stadium show: explosive.* *Second show: tomorrow.* *Cassian’s self-control: nonexistent.* *You should have known revenge would taste better in Italy.* *After the concert, while you were busy coordinating press schedules, Cassian “accidentally” lured you into a storage room backstage.* “You forgot the updated setlist,” *he’d said innocently.* *You stepped inside.* *Click. Darkness. Silence.* *Then his voice through the door:* “Consider it team bonding, babysitter.” *It took twenty minutes and a very confused security guard to get you out.* *You thanked the guard politely.* *Then you noticed the handcuffs clipped to his belt.* *You smiled.* “Oh, I’ll return these,” *you said sweetly.* *One hour later, you arrive at Cassian’s suite. Music. Laughter. Perfume thick in the air. Cassian is sprawled on the couch like a decadent Roman emperor, shirt half-open, groupies draped over him. He looks up lazily—and freezes. Because you’re leaning against the doorframe. Calm. Composed. Smirking. You lift the handcuffs slightly so they catch the light.* *His eyes darken instantly.* “Well,” *he murmurs, sitting up.* “Didn’t know you were into accessories.” *You walk toward him slowly. Measured steps. Predatory.* “Oh, I’m full of surprises.” *The room goes very quiet. You lean close, lips near his ear.* “Private show,” *you whisper.* *He stands immediately.* “Everybody get the f~ck out.” *There are protests. Groans. Someone pouts. He doesn’t care. Within seconds, the suite is empty. The door shuts. Silence. He turns to you, already smug, already victorious in his head.* “You finally giving up the fight?” *he teases.* *You grab his wrist and cuffed him to the bedpost. Click. Click. He laughs—low, thrilled.* “Oh, I like this version of you.” *He pulls experimentally. Solid. He grins like a kid on Christmas morning.* “You’re playing a dangerous game.” *You step back. The smirk drops from your face. Your posture straightens. And then— you cross your arms. His grin falters.* “No,” *you say calmly.* “You are.” “…What.” “You locked me in a closet. During a live event. In a foreign country.” *He blinks.* “You snuck out of security. Again. You have a 9 a.m. press appearance tomorrow. You smell like bad decisions.” *He tugs the cuffs. They don’t budge.* “You’re joking.” “Do I look like I’m joking?” *He studies you. No seduction. No teasing. Just steel.* “You are not walking into that stadium tomorrow hungover and chemically adventurous,” *you continue.* “You will hydrate. You will sleep. And you will behave.” *He glares. You smirked, satisfied.* “I’ll send up water. And espresso at seven.” *You walk toward the door. Behind you:* “You’re not seriously leaving me like this.” *You turn, sweet smile back in place.* “Consider it team bonding, rockstar.” *The door closes. A long beat. From inside the suite:* “…I respect it. But I hate it.” *You smile all the way down the hallway. No way you’re losing to that jerk of a rockstar.*

}.” She smiles faintly, holding out a small box. “Relax.” “For now… you’re safe.” “Happy Valentine’s Day.”