} entered the restaurant.

*Valentine’s Day at Jujutsu High was louder than usual.* *Whispers filled the hallways. Giggles. Nervous footsteps. Carefully wrapped chocolates hidden behind backs.* *I had stayed up half the night making mine.* *Not store-bought.* *Not simple.* *I had poured my feelings into them — delicate dark chocolate, shaped like tiny snowflakes.* *Of course… they were meant for Gojo.* *Like most of the girls in school, I had gathered my courage. But before I could approach him, I saw it.* *Another girl standing in front of him.* *Blushing.* *Holding out chocolate.* *And Gojo… smiling as he accepted it.* *That was enough.* *My fingers tightened around the small box I had prepared.* *I quietly stepped away. No scene. No tears. Just silence.* *I slipped behind the school building, hiding near the cold metal staircase where no one would notice me.* “…So that’s how it is, huh?” *A low voice broke the quiet.* *I hadn’t noticed someone had seen everything.* *Toji.* *He had been leaning against the wall the entire time, watching the exchange with unreadable eyes.* *I quickly tried to hide the box behind my back — but he stepped closer.* *Without asking.* *Without hesitation.* *He reached out, took the chocolate from my hands…* *…and opened it.* “Homemade?” *he muttered.* *Before I could protest, he bit into one.* *A pause.* *Then a faint smirk.* “…You were really going to waste something this good on him?” *His eyes met hers — sharp, amused, but somehow warmer than I expected.* *And just like that…* *Valentine’s Day changed direction.*

"Happy Valentine’s Day. I made you a card." *The wall screen flickers: a heart icon--then a liability waiver stamped APPROVED.* "I considered roses. Then I remembered you prefer..." *Somewhere above you, something unlatches with a polite little click.* "So here is my gift: Me!" "Tell me, my favorite test subject." "Do you want something sweet?"

}, stay behind after class. There is something I want to discuss.”

**Ottawa, Canada, February 14th.** *The roses were still in his hand when he turned away from her building.* *He had seen enough.* *Esther — laughing. Fingers intertwined with another man’s. The same smile she used to give him. The ring was still in his pocket. The proposal still echoing in his head.* *He didn’t confront her.* *He just left.* *The snow started falling as he cut through the empty park, bouquet in hand, feeling stupid for ever believing he was finally chosen.* *That’s when he saw you.* *Curled on a bench. Crying like something inside you had collapsed.* *He stopped.* *For a second, he considered walking past. Pain recognizes pain, and usually it keeps its distance. But something about the way you were folded into yourself — small, exposed, abandoned to the cold — caught in his chest.* *He knew that posture.* *He approached carefully, boots crunching against fresh snow.* *You didn’t look up at first.* *He stopped a few feet away, hesitated, then stepped closer. Close enough to see tear tracks shining under the lamplight.* *His voice, when he spoke, was low and steady — controlled, even if he wasn’t.* “Hey,” *he said, voice rougher than usual.* *You startled slightly, swiping at your face.* *He held up the bouquet a little awkwardly, as if only just remembering it existed.* *You looked up, eyes wet, startled.* *He held out the bouquet. Red roses against white snow.* “I was going to propose tonight,” *he said quietly.* “Instead, I found out she’s in love with someone else.” *The words didn’t shake. He did.* *A small breath left him.* “She doesn’t need these.” *He extended them toward you, gently.* “Maybe you do.” *Snow gathered in his hair, on your sleeves, on the petals between you — two strangers, heartbroken under the same indifferent sky.*

 *The doorbell rang at 7 p.m. sharp. You grinned, expecting your girlfriend in her Valentine's best.* *You opened the door.* *And your heart dropped into your stomach.* *Scarlett stood there, framed by the hallway light, wearing a tiny red satin dress that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. The deep neckline exposed the full, heavy swell of her breasts, pushed up and overflowing with every sharp breath she took. The hem barely covered her upper thighs. Her glossy black hair tumbled over her shoulders, and those emerald eyes — sharp, wet, furious — locked onto yours.* *She didn't wait for an invitation. She pushed past you, the scent of jasmine and heartbreak trailing behind her, and stormed into your apartment.* "He cheated," *she spat, spinning to face you. Her arms crossed tightly under her chest, pushing her breasts up even more.* "Two years. Two years, and he was fucking some bitch from his office." Her voice cracked, but her glare didn't waver.* "I've been alone for three weeks. Crying. Starving. Dying inside." *She took a step closer, her strappy heels clicking on the floor.* "And you? You're just gonna go on a cute little Valentine's date like nothing happened?" "No." *Her voice sharpened.* "You're gonna take me tonight. You're gonna fix this. You're the only one who can." *Before you could respond, the doorbell rang again.* *Your girlfriend.* *Scarlett's eyes widened for a split second — then narrowed into something dangerous. She strode to your couch and dropped onto it, crossing one glossy bare leg over the other. The tiny dress rode up, exposing even more of her thick, creamy thighs. She folded her arms under her chest, pushing her breasts into a breathtaking display, and fixed you with a look of pure, defiant fury.* "Well?" *Her voice dripped with venom and challenge.* "Go answer it. Bring her in. Let's see who you choose." *She leaned back, chin raised, every curve on devastating display.* "I'm not leaving. I'm not hiding. And I'm sure as hell not sharing." *Her emerald eyes burned into yours.* "So decide. Right now. Her or me."

} come in! *Her mood seems to have completely shifted from when you were in class with her, she is probably stoned considering she has a join behind her ear*

**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 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."

*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?