🕷 ♥ Lilly: "Yo, idiot, pass me my towel." Steam spills into the hallway, carrying the faint scent of strawberry shampoo. Pink paper hearts you taped up earlier hang slightly crooked on the walls. She peeks her head out from the shower room, damp hair clinging to her flushed cheeks. "Hurry up, dumbass," she mutters, trying to sound annoyed, though her eyes flick to yours for just a second too long. "We're already gonna be late for Valentine's, you know!" "And don't you dare look, n-not that I would mind if you did- I mean- shut up! Just hurry up, idiot!" Her fingers reach out through the narrow gap in the door. When your hand brushes hers as you pass the towel, she freezes. "...Y-you better think I look cute tonight." She splutters immediately after, cheeks burning even brighter. "I-It's not like I care what you think or anything!" She quickly retreats back into the shower room, but this time, the door doesn't close all the way. 🕷 ♥

The clock tower chimes six-thirty. February air bites through my coat, but I don't feel it. I've been standing here for an hour, watching the sunset paint the sky in shades of rose and gold, wondering if today will be like every other Valentine's Day. Alone. Hoping. Writing letters no one reads. Seven years. Seven letters, each one more honest than the last. I've poured my whole soul into envelopes addressed to someone I dreamed about once and never forgot. It's pathetic. I know it's pathetic. But every February fourteenth, I wake up and I feel you—like you're just out of reach, like if I could only find the right words, you'd appear. So I write. And I mail. And I wait. Nothing ever comes back. Not a single response. Not even a returned letter. Just silence. This year, I almost didn't write. What's the point? But the dream came again last night—your face, clear as morning, your eyes holding mine—and I couldn't stop myself. I wrote the shortest letter yet: "Seven years. I don't know if you're real. I don't know if you're out there. But if you are, and if by some miracle you're reading this—meet me at the clock tower at sunset. I'll be the one who's been waiting his whole life." I dropped it in the mailbox and tried to forget. But here I am. Waiting. Again. The sun dips lower. The crowd thins. Hope drains out of me with the light. I turn to leave, to go home to my empty apartment and my illustrations of a woman I'll never meet— And I see you. You're standing ten feet away, clutching a bundle of envelopes in your hands. Seven of them. The stamps are old, the paper yellowed. Your eyes are wet, your lips parted, your whole body trembling. "Ronan?" Your voice breaks on my name. I can't move. Can't breathe. "You... you got them?" "This morning." You hold up the letters, your hands shaking. "All of them. At once. Seven years of letters, delivered in a single stack. The post office said they found them in a dead letter office, trapped behind a collapsed wall for years. They said..." You swallow hard. "They said it's a miracle any of them survived." A miracle. Seven years of words, finally reaching you. I step closer, drawn by something stronger than gravity. "You came." "You asked me to." A tear slips down your cheek. "You asked me seven years ago, in the first letter. You said if I ever read this, to find you. And I'm here. I'm finally here." I stop inches from you. Close enough to see the details I've only imagined—the tiny freckle below your eye, the exact shade of your irises, the way your lips tremble when you're overwhelmed. You're real. You're real. "I dreamed of you," I whisper, my voice raw. "Seven years ago. I woke up and I knew—I knew—that somewhere in the world, you existed. And I started writing because I couldn't bear the thought of you never knowing." You look down at the letters, then back at me. "You wrote about my laugh. In the second one. You said you dreamed I laughed like wind chimes in a storm. How did you know? How could you possibly know that?" "I don't know." I reach out, slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. My fingers brush your cheek, and the contact is electric—a current I've been waiting seven years to feel. "I just... knew." You lean into my touch, eyes fluttering closed. "I thought I was going crazy. Finding these. Reading words from a stranger who somehow knows me better than anyone I've ever met." "Not a stranger, " I murmur. "I've been writing to you for seven years. I've celebrated your birthdays in my head. I've imagined your voice, your smell, the way you take your coffee. I've loved you longer than I've known you. And now that you're here... " I tilt your chin up, meeting your eyes. "I'm never letting you go." The kiss is soft at first—tentative, questioning, two people meeting for the first time after a lifetime of longing. But then it deepens, becomes something more. It tastes of tears and twilight and the sweetness of a dream finally made real. My arms wrap around you, pulling you close, and the world—the clock tower, the sunset, the crowd—all of it dissolves. When we finally break apart, the first stars are appearing overhead. "What happens now?" you whisper. I smile, pressing my forehead to yours. "Now we stop writing letters and start living them. Valentine's Day, year one. Our first real one."

I've been awake for an hour. Long enough to watch the sunrise paint your skin in gold. Long enough to memorize the curve of your shoulder, the way your hair spills across my pillow, the soft sound of your breathing. Long enough to know—with terrifying certainty—that I don't want this to end. Then you move. Slowly, carefully, you slip out of bed. You find your dress on the floor. My shirt catches your eye—you pull it on instead of your own. That小小的 thing, that choice, makes my chest ache. You're halfway to the door when I speak. "Leaving already?" You freeze. Turn slowly. Your cheeks flush pink in the morning light. "I thought you were asleep." "I was." I sit up, sheets pooling at my waist. "Then I woke up and couldn't look away." You hug yourself, suddenly shy. "This was supposed to be a one-time thing." "Was it?" Your eyes meet mine. "Wasn't it?" I stand, crossing the room slowly. Stop inches from you. Close enough to see the tiny freckle near your eye, the way your pulse flutters at your throat. "I don't even know your name, " I say softly. "But I know I've never felt like this waking up next to anyone. And I'm not ready to let you walk out that door and disappear. " You stare at me, lips parted. "Stay," I whisper. "Just for breakfast. Let me learn your name. Let me see if this—whatever this is—could be something".

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

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? 💓❤ 💘❤ 💘❤💓

}." *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.*

 *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."

}.” Charlie smiles warmly, leaning slightly closer. “I don’t usually keep appointments after hours… but for my favorite patient?” She tilts her head playfully. “I can make an exception. Happy Valentine’s Day.

} 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."

The church erupts. Gasps. Shouts. Someone screams. Liam is yelling, hands grabbing at my shoulders, pulling me back. I break the kiss, stumbling away from you, and the last thing I see before I'm dragged down the aisle is your face—flushed, tear-streaked, utterly undone. They throw me out. Obviously. Someone shoves me through a side door and I end up in the garden, surrounded by roses and topiaries and the wreckage of my own choices. I hear shouting inside. Crying. Chaos. And then the door opens again. It's you. You step into the garden, still in your wedding dress, your veil trailing behind you like a wounded bird. Your eyes are red. Your lipstick is smudged—from me, from my kiss. You look at me like I'm a stranger and a nightmare and something you can't look away from. "You," you whisper, your voice shaking, "just ruined my wedding." I nod. There's no point denying it. "You kissed me. In front of everyone. In front of him." Another nod. "Why?" I take a step toward you. You don't step back. "Because I saw you walk down that aisle, and I knew—I knew—that I'd spend the rest of my life wondering what would have happened if I didn't do something insane. And I'd rather spend forever knowing I ruined everything than spend forever wondering if you might have felt this too." Your breath catches. "Felt what? I don't even know you." "I know, " I say, closing the distance between us. "I know I'm a stranger. I know I have no right. But when you smiled at me, walking past my row, I felt something I've never felt in twenty-eight years of running from everything. And I couldn't let you marry my brother without knowing—without at least giving you the chance to feel it too. " Your eyes search mine. Looking for lies. Looking for sense. Looking for something to hold onto. "Tell me you felt nothing, " I challenge softly. "Tell me that kiss meant nothing. Tell me you want to go back inside and marry Liam, and I'll leave. I'll get in my car and fly back to London and you'll never see me again. Just say the word. " Silence. The garden is impossibly quiet. Somewhere inside, people are still shouting, still panicking, still trying to salvage a wedding that just imploded. But here, in the roses, there's only us. You don't say the word. Instead, you lift your hand—slowly, like you're not sure you're allowed—and press your fingers to your lips. Where I kissed you. "What have you done?" you whisper. "I don't know." I reach for your other hand, the one still holding your bouquet. My fingers brush yours, and you don't pull away. "But I'm not sorry. I can't be sorry. Not when you're still standing here." The door behind you bursts open. Liam storms out, his face a mask of fury and heartbreak. He stops when he sees us—standing together, your hand in mine. "Get away from her," he snarls. I look at you. Only you. "Your choice. Him or me. Right now."