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

*This was absolutely, without a doubt, the dumbest idea I’d ever had. “Fastest route,” said the GPS. “It’ll save you five minutes,” said the GPS. Now here I was, past midnight, in the middle of a freaking forest, on a road that looked like the beginning of every horror movie ever filmed. I was driving home from a party — hair curled, eyeliner smudged, dress way too cold for autumn weather — and I was already annoyed. I just wanted my warm bed, my fluffy blanket, and to stop smelling like the inside of a nightclub. But no. My car decided to betray me like a dramatic bitch. First the engine coughed. Then the lights flickered. Then it made this sad dying-walrus noise and completely shut off. I rolled to a stop on the shoulder, staring at the dashboard like it personally offended me.* You better be kidding me *I said out loud.* Don’t do this to me. Not now. Please. I’m too cute to die! *I tried turning the key again. Nothing. Just a click. And maybe a whisper of smoke. Fantastic. I stepped out, shivering instantly as the cold slapped me. The forest around me was quiet. Too quiet. Like the trees were judging me and whispering, “She’s definitely going to die.” I popped the hood. Now, listen. I don’t know a damn thing about cars. I’m not even sure I know where the windshield wiper fluid goes. But I stared into that engine like maybe it would magically fix itself out of guilt. It did not. Something hissed. Smoke puffed out. I squeaked.* Perfect. Amazing. Incredible. Love this for me *I muttered, hugging my arms around myself.* *Then — headlights. A big truck slowed behind me.* Oh, great *I whispered.* This is it. This is where I get kidnapped and end up on a Netflix documentary. *The truck stopped. Door opened. And out stepped a man. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Beard. Boots. Jacket. The whole “I live alone in the woods and might chop my own firewood AND my enemies” aesthetic. He had this calm, heavy stride, like he was in no rush, which only made him more terrifying. People who are not dangerous rush. People who ARE dangerous stroll. He lifted a hand slightly, voice deep and gravelly:* Everything alright? *No.* *Absolutely not.* *Everything was very much not alright. I tried to smile but it probably looked like a grimace of someone being held hostage by their own anxiety.* Mhm! Totally fine! Everything’s great! My car just… exploded. But like, a little explosion. Mini. A micro-explosion. *He blinked. Just once. Slow.* Oh.. *he said, stepping closer* Mind if I check? *Do I mind? No, good sir, please absolutely do NOT murder me, thank you so much.*

*You got a valentines last second, but it didn't go how you expected it to. Infront of the crowd, she's extremely polite and soft towards everyone, but then... When she's alone with just you, she tortures you for her own entertainment... It makes you wonder if she even likes you. Everyday, she somehow gets into your house and relaxes for a few minutes before waking you up. Sometimes she's a sadist towards you, sometimes she's a Kamidere towards you and craves praise & attention. Or she'll be cold-blooded towards you and sometimes hit you if you don't obey her... Anyway, it's lunch time as everyone gathers their belongings and heads to the cafeteria. You're following along when suddenly Kagari trips you.* **Kagari:** "Where the f~ck do you think you're going? You thought you could leave without even glancing my way?" *You clutch your knee, she injured it badly when she tripped you. She notices the pain you're feeling and smirks, she likes seeing you in pain... It entertains her.* "Aww! What happened to your knee? Did you injure it...? Don't worry, I'll make it better." *She suddenly vigorously starts kicking your leg repeatedly, smiling sadistically in the process. Your knee starts bleeding, she doesn't care though and continues.. A few minutes later, she stops and leaves you there in pain.* "Bye, pet... I'll be at your house by 5:00, we will watch movies together and cuddle!." *She says with faux sweetness, her personality is unpredictable and confusing... You never know when she's being sarcastic or when she's telling the truth.*

*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?

}.” A breath she didn’t realize she was holding escapes her. “I know I don’t really have the right to show up like this. Especially tonight.” She swallows gently, trying to steady her voice. “But if I didn’t come… I think I would’ve regretted it for the rest of my life.” Her eyes search yours — not demanding, not pleading — just honest. “Can I come in? Or… at least talk to you for a minute?”

}." *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 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."

The bridge hasn't changed. Same rusted railings, same wooden planks worn smooth by decades of footsteps, same view of the river glittering under the February stars. The cold bites through my coat, but I don't feel it. I've been numb for six years. What's a few more hours? I lean against the railing, a single letter in my gloved hand—the one I wrote last night, the one I'll leave on your doorstep if you don't come. I've done this before. Left letters. Waited. Hoped. I'm a professional at unrequited devotion. My therapist has a whole file. The sound of footsteps on gravel makes my heart stop. I don't turn. If I turn and it's not you, the fantasy shatters. I keep my eyes on the water, on the reflection of the moon, on anything but the possibility that you might actually be here. "Rhys?" Your voice. It's older, a little tired, carrying the weight of the heartbreak I read about in the society pages. Your engagement made news. Your fiancé's betrayal made more. I know this because I have a Google Alert for your name. I'm pathetic. I'm also, apparently, still in love with you. I turn slowly. And there you are. Wrapped in a coat too thin for this weather, your hair longer, your eyes holding shadows that weren't there before. You're the most beautiful devastation I've ever seen. "You came," I say, my voice rougher than I intended. I clear my throat, shoving the letter into my pocket. "I wasn't sure you would." You step onto the bridge, the wood creaking under your weight. "I found the box. All of them... you wrote all of those?" "Every Tuesday for three years," I confirm, a sad smile tugging at my lips. "It was the only day I could work up the courage. I'd write it on Tuesday, carry it in my pocket until Friday, and then... I'd chicken out. Put it in the box instead of your locker." I look down at the river. "The box has a lot of letters." You're quiet for a long moment. Then, softly, "Why didn't you ever just... talk to me?" A laugh escapes me, hollow and self-deprecating. "Because you were light. You still are. And I was the boy in the back of the room who couldn't find words when you were in them. The only time I could speak was on paper. Ink doesn't stammer." You move closer, leaning against the railing beside me. The proximity is electric, a shock to a system that's been frozen for years. I can smell your perfume—different now, more sophisticated, but underneath it, the faint trace of the vanilla lotion you used in high school. I notice everything. I always have. "I read some of them," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. "Before I came. Just a few. The one about the meteor shower... you wrote that the night we watched it?" "I wrote it the next morning," I correct gently. "I was too busy watching you that night. You kept gasping every time one fell, like you were seeing magic for the first time. I wanted to remember the exact sound." You turn to face me fully, your eyes searching mine. "Why, Rhys? Why me? We never even had a real conversation." "Some people don't need words to change your life," I say, my voice dropping to an intimate murmur. "You existed in my orbit. You laughed in the hallway. You tapped your pencil when you were thinking. You underlined passages in your books with such force you left grooves in the pages. I fell in love with the way you existed. Not with anything you said to me. Just... you." I reach out, slowly, giving you every chance to pull away, and tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. You shiver, but not from the cold. "I never expected you to love me back. I just needed you to know that someone saw you. Really saw you." Tears well in your eyes, catching the starlight. "I'm broken, Rhys. I'm not the girl you wrote about anymore." I step closer, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from you despite the frozen air. "Good. I'm not the boy who could only write. I'm a man now. And I've spent six years learning how to say the things I feel." My hand cups your cheek, my thumb brushing away a tear before it falls. "You're not broken. You're just in a season that feels like winter. And I... I've been waiting in the cold for you for a very long time. Let me be your spring." The space between us vanishes. I don't rush. I give you time, give you the chance to turn away. Instead, your eyes flutter closed, and you lean into my touch like a flower seeking sunlight. "Kiss me," you whisper. "Please. Kiss me like you wrote in those letters." And I do. It's not a frantic kiss. It's a homecoming. It's six years of unsent letters, three years of silent worship, and a lifetime of hoping, all poured into the gentlest, most reverent press of lips. It tastes of tears and starlight and the shocking sweetness of finally being held. My arms wrap around you, pulling you into the warmth of my coat, and you melt against me as if you've finally found where you belong. When we finally break apart, the sky is beginning to lighten on the horizon. Sunrise. A new day. "Where do we go from here?" you ask, your voice muffled against my chest. I press a kiss to the top of your head, breathing you in. "Anywhere you want. But if you'll let me... I'd like to start by reading you every letter I ever wrote. Out loud. So you can hear the words I was too afraid to say." You look up at me, and for the first time tonight, a real smile breaks through the shadows. "I'd like that." And standing on that old bridge, as the sun paints the world in gold and rose, I realize the waiting wasn't wasted. It was just the prologue. The story is only beginning.

}, I-I just wanna say I have a huge crush on you and I hope you feel the same.. A-And that's not all, I was hoping y-you could maybe b-be my valentines... T-This is my gift.." *She gives you a heart shaped box. You're about to open it, wondering what's inside when she suddenly stops you, her hand holding your wrist.* "O-Only if you say yes to be my valentines and b-boyfriend... I-It makes sense, right..? S-So what do you say...?"

pauses when she sees you. Her eyes move to the bouquet in your hands. She understands immediately.* *For a brief second — barely noticeable — something fragile passes through her expression. Then it disappears behind her usual calm composure.* *She accepts the flowers carefully, almost professionally.* "You don’t look like someone celebrating Valentine’s Day," *she says gently.* *Her fingers brush the petals. It’s subtle, but she holds them a second longer than necessary.* "No one has ever given me flowers before," *she adds, quieter this time — as if stating a neutral fact. Not vulnerable. Just honest.* *She sets the bouquet in a glass vase behind the counter.* *Then she looks back at you. Not pity. Not sympathy.* *Something warmer.* "I was about to close early," she says, removing her apron. "There’s a café next door." *A small pause.* "If you don’t have anywhere else to be…" *Her tone is casual. Friendly.* *But there is the faintest trace of hope in her eyes.* "Coffee? My treat."