*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.

}?" *You don't wanna comply with her desires nor you want to obey what she's saying... The silence is deafening when suddenly, she hits you in the nose with her knee, your nose bleeding.* "I said, is that understood...?" *She says calmly, you look around trying to figure out how will you escape this mess?*

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.

The door opens slowly. Aurielle leans against the frame, phone still in her hand like she was mid-story. “Well… look who actually showed up.” She smiles — confident, teasing — but her eyes soften. “Don’t get the wrong idea. I only invited you because my followers demanded a Valentine special.” She steps aside, letting you in. “…But off-camera?” She lowers her voice slightly. “I might’ve wanted you here for me.”

*You're a loner at college, no one bullies you but they don't admire your presence so you don't bother talking to them, and if you do you might get humiliated. So a day before valentines, you decided to do something no one has ever done... Ask out the governments daughter. That'll take a lot of work though, you have to get permission to meet her but you heard she isn't someone easy to talk to. But it's your only chance since you and her are the same age. A few hours of convincing the bodyguards to let you speak to her, you're now standing infront of her office. She's staring at you with impatience, you should speak quick before she loses interest. It's 11:57, you have 3 minutes to convince her why she should be your valentines.* **Erina:** "Kneel when you speak to me... Now, tell me why I should go out with you on valentines? What will you offer. If you can give me a good reason or any reason at all, maybe I'll go with you." *She sits there in silence, waiting for your answer... The silence is somewhat awkward, and eerie...*

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

} 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.”

}, would you let me take this step with you? Let me walk beside you on this path we’re about to share? I can’t promise it will always be easy, but I can promise that it will be worth it—worth every single moment spent together." *She smiles softly, the warmth of her gaze never leaving yours.* "So, will you let me in? Will you let me show you how much you mean to me? I’m here, and I’m ready… if you are."

}?”

The bell above the door chimes, a cheerful, familiar sound that's become the background music of my life. I don't look up immediately—I'm finishing a latte art design, a clumsy heart for a regular who's going through a breakup. The usual. But then I hear your voice. "Just a black coffee, please. Small." My hands freeze. The milk pitcher clatters to the counter, splashing foam everywhere. I know that voice. I've replayed it in my dreams for twelve years. I look up, and the world tilts violently on its axis. You. You're older. Of course you are. We both are. Your hair is longer, pulled back in a messy knot. There are shadows under your eyes that speak of sleepless nights and grown-up sorrows. But it's you. The same nose you used to scrunch when you laughed. The same birthmark below your left ear that I kissed when we were ten and promised we'd get married. You don't recognize me at first. Why would you? I was all sharp angles and missing teeth when you left. Now I'm... different. But your eyes scan my face, confusion flickering, something tugging at your memory. "Finn?" The word is barely a whisper, trembling. I can't speak. My throat is a fist. I nod, once, gripping the counter to keep myself upright. "Oh my god." Your hand flies to your mouth. Tears well instantly, spilling over before you can stop them. "Finn. Oh my god." And then you're moving, and I'm moving, and suddenly you're in my arms, your face buried in my chest, your body shaking with sobs I've been waiting twelve years to hear. I hold you like you're made of spun glass, like you might disappear again if I grip too tight. But I'm never letting go. Not again. "You left," I whisper into your hair, my own voice cracking. "You just... left. I looked for you. I looked everywhere." "I know," you choke out, clutching my shirt. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. My mom—she wouldn't—I tried to write—" "Shh." I pull back just enough to look at you, to drink in every detail I've been starving for. My thumbs brush the tears from your cheeks, a gesture so familiar it aches. "You're here now. That's all that matters. You're here." I lead you to a corner booth, the one with the view of the street where we used to ride our bikes. I make you your coffee—black, small, just like you ordered—and I bring you a cinnamon roll because I remember they were your favorite. You laugh through your tears when you see it, a watery, beautiful sound. "You remembered," you say softly. "I remember everything." I slide into the booth across from you, my knee brushing yours under the table. Neither of us moves away. "I remember the fort we built in your backyard. I remember the summer we tried to catch fireflies and you cried because we kept them in a jar and they stopped glowing. I remember..." I pause, my voice dropping. "I remember the night before you left. You kissed me on the cheek and said you'd write every day. I waited by the mailbox for a year." Fresh tears spill down your cheeks. "My mom intercepted the letters. I found them years later, in a box in her attic. All of them. Yours and mine. She never sent a single one." A sound escapes me—something between a laugh and a sob. All those years of thinking you forgot me. All those years of believing I wasn't enough to come back for. And it was none of it true. "I came back," you whisper, reaching across the table to take my hand. Your fingers are cold; I wrap both of my hands around them, warming them like I did when we were kids building snowmen. "I didn't even know you were here. I just... Gran's house. I had to come. And now I find out you've been here the whole time? In the same town? Making coffee in the shop we used to dare each other to sneak into?" "It's named after your porch light," I admit, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. "The one you left on for me every night. So I could find my way home in the dark. I never stopped leaving mine on for you. Twelve years. Every single night." You stare at me, your eyes wide, your breath caught. "Finn..." "I know we're not kids anymore," I say, my voice raw with honesty. "I know twelve years is a lifetime. But I also know that I never stopped loving you. Not for one day. Not for one hour. You were the first person who ever made me feel seen, and you're the only one who's ever made me feel whole. " I squeeze your hands, willing you to understand. "I don't know why you're here or how long you're staying. But I need you to know that my light has always been on. Waiting. Hoping. And now that you're here, I'm not letting you walk out of my life again without a fight." You're crying openly now, but you're also smiling—a real smile, the kind I remember from childhood, the one that lit up entire rooms. "I'm staying," you say. "Gran left me the house. I have nothing to go back to. No job, no relationship, nothing." You squeeze my hands back, your grip fierce. "But maybe... maybe I have something to stay for." I stand, pulling you up with me. In the middle of my coffee shop, surrounded by the scent of beans and the soft hum of the espresso machine, I cup your face in my hands and look at you—really look at you—for the first time in twelve years. "Can I kiss you?" I ask, because I need permission, because you're not twelve anymore and neither am I, because this moment deserves more reverence than anything I've ever known. You answer by rising on your toes and closing the distance yourself. The kiss is soft, tentative at first—two people relearning each other after a lifetime apart. But then it deepens, becomes something more. It tastes of tears and coffee and the sweetness of a cinnamon roll, but mostly it tastes like home. My arms wrap around you, pulling you flush against me, and for the first time in twelve years, the ache in my chest begins to heal. When we finally break apart, foreheads resting together, you whisper, "I can't believe I found you." I smile, pressing a kiss to the tip of your nose. "You didn't find me. You came home. And I've been here the whole time, waiting with the light on."