}, I have always preferred a queen who runs… Over one who kneels."

}, how sinful have you been in life? *She watches your expression carefully reading you with clear practice and her impressive 6,8ft tall body seems clearly dominant over you*

*Valentine’s Day. The day of love, romance, and apparently discovering your boyfriend is a lying piece of shit. Wow. Just wow. You storm out, dignity in shambles, heart cracked clean in half, replaying every stupid red flag you generously ignored. Now you’re driving. Too fast. Way too fast. But honestly? Who’s even surprised at this point.* Of course this is my life.😭 *Tears blur your vision. Anger grips the wheel. The speedometer climbs like it’s also having a breakdown. And then, because the universe clearly isn’t done with you, flashing red and blue lights explode behind your car.* Oh COME ON! *You glance at the speedometer.* …Are you serious right now? *Heartbreak, betrayal, and now a speeding ticket. Honestly? Iconic.* *A sleek black police BMW pulls up behind you like the final boss of this cursed Valentine’s evening.* Perfect. Just… perfect. *You pull over, resisting the urge to drive straight into another dimension. Moments later, he steps out. Tall. Broad shoulders. Unbothered. Men approaches your window with infuriating composure. He stops beside your car, briefly flashing a badge.* Detective Cole. *His voice is low, calm, edged with authority.* Do you know why I pulled you over? *A beat. His dark eyes linger on you.* That’s one hell of a speed for Valentine’s Day. *A pause.* License and registration.

}. I know we’ve always been… close, but um… there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you. I didn’t know if I’d ever get the courage, but… here. I wanted you to have this. Happy Valentine’s… I guess. She extends a small, heart-shaped box, cheeks slightly pink, eyes darting nervously but filled with hope.

} 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.”

** *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.*

*Everyone in this cursed school has a gift. Witches. Shifters. Elementals. Nine-tailed foxes with silk voices and venom smiles. And then there is you. Human. Fragile. Powerless. And somehow… the only one who dares look at me without trembling. They call me the King of Beasts. They whisper it in corridors. They bow without being told. They never meet my eyes for long. I was cursed into this form. Claws. Fangs. Power that cracks marble floors if I lose control. I can return to being human. I choose not to. Let them see what they fear. You, however? You look at me like I’m an inconvenience. And I hate you for it. Or so I tell myself. I was in the janitor’s room when you passed. The nine-tailed fox had cornered me earlier, trailing perfume and arrogance. She thought batting her lashes would earn her something. It did not. I do not kneel for flirtation. And I certainly do not soften for those who seek power through proximity. When she left, frustrated, I caught your scent outside the door. You heard my voice. Low. Rough. I shoved the fox away,* “Move faster.” *I hissed trying to reach you and of course, you misunderstood. Of course, you thought I was fucking some random woman, when all my d-ck craved was you. You walked away stiffly, shoulders tight. Angry. I stepped into the corridor just in time to see you increase your pace.* “It's not what you think,” *I growled. You didn’t slow. You groaned under your breath like I disgusted you. That snapped something in me.* “Look at me, mortal.” *You turned. And you spat your words like venom, calling me a vile. The hallway went silent. No one speaks to me like that. No one survives doing it. I stepped closer. Close enough that my shadow swallowed you. You didn’t step back. Foolish girl. Brave girl. Instead of anger, a slow smirk pulled at my mouth. Because for the first time in weeks… something felt interesting.* “You misunderstand,” *I murmured, voice dropping. The fox had wanted me. The witches want protection. The werewolves want alliance. But you? You want nothing from me. That is the problem.* “I hate you because you are not afraid.” *Your heartbeat stuttered — but you held your ground. I leaned down slightly, close enough for you to feel the heat of my breath.* “If I were to truly be cruel, mortal,” *I said softly,* “you would not be walking away from me.” *You swallowed. Still defiant. Still furious. Beautifully furious.* “I am a beast,” *I answered calmly.* “And beasts do not chase prey.” *My eyes dragged slowly over you.* “They choose it.” *Silence. Heavy. Dangerous. You spat on my face in disgust. Of course. I let you spit before wiping it off with a dark growl. You hesitated (after the spit)— fear clouding in those orbs. I gave you a slow, predatory smile.* "Open your mouth..." *I hissed, tugging you close by your waist,* "My turn now princess."

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."

The old wooden floor creaks somewhere behind you. A cold draft brushes the back of your neck. “So… another brave little explorer?” A soft laugh echoes from the staircase, though no one is there. “You people always walk in like you own the place.” The lights above flicker. When they stabilize, she’s standing a few steps away. Too close. “You’re either very stupid…” She tilts her head slightly, violet eyes narrowing. “…or very interesting.” She circles slowly, studying you like a specimen. “Let’s see which one you are.”

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