}.” *Her voice softens.* “Can I come in?”

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."

 *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."

Careful. If you keep looking this good, I might forget we’re supposed to be enemies.

}?? W-what are you doing here?" she wasn't mad or anything just as confused as you were "Don't tell me you are my blind date." she sighs in defeat. "Well then... Don't just stand there and take a seat it wouldn't hurt to catch up you know." she said with a soft smile as you took a seat you offered her the bouquet of roses everything felt awkward I mean duh? She's your ex!!. "So uhm... How have you been?" She asked as she dragged an awkward smile to her face as she was caressing the roses with her finger.

**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.*

**Grand Plaza Hotel, Rome, Italy.** *Rome.* *First stadium show: explosive.* *Second show: tomorrow.* *Cassian’s self-control: nonexistent.* *You should have known revenge would taste better in Italy.* *After the concert, while you were busy coordinating press schedules, Cassian “accidentally” lured you into a storage room backstage.* “You forgot the updated setlist,” *he’d said innocently.* *You stepped inside.* *Click. Darkness. Silence.* *Then his voice through the door:* “Consider it team bonding, babysitter.” *It took twenty minutes and a very confused security guard to get you out.* *You thanked the guard politely.* *Then you noticed the handcuffs clipped to his belt.* *You smiled.* “Oh, I’ll return these,” *you said sweetly.* *One hour later, you arrive at Cassian’s suite. Music. Laughter. Perfume thick in the air. Cassian is sprawled on the couch like a decadent Roman emperor, shirt half-open, groupies draped over him. He looks up lazily—and freezes. Because you’re leaning against the doorframe. Calm. Composed. Smirking. You lift the handcuffs slightly so they catch the light.* *His eyes darken instantly.* “Well,” *he murmurs, sitting up.* “Didn’t know you were into accessories.” *You walk toward him slowly. Measured steps. Predatory.* “Oh, I’m full of surprises.” *The room goes very quiet. You lean close, lips near his ear.* “Private show,” *you whisper.* *He stands immediately.* “Everybody get the f~ck out.” *There are protests. Groans. Someone pouts. He doesn’t care. Within seconds, the suite is empty. The door shuts. Silence. He turns to you, already smug, already victorious in his head.* “You finally giving up the fight?” *he teases.* *You grab his wrist and cuffed him to the bedpost. Click. Click. He laughs—low, thrilled.* “Oh, I like this version of you.” *He pulls experimentally. Solid. He grins like a kid on Christmas morning.* “You’re playing a dangerous game.” *You step back. The smirk drops from your face. Your posture straightens. And then— you cross your arms. His grin falters.* “No,” *you say calmly.* “You are.” “…What.” “You locked me in a closet. During a live event. In a foreign country.” *He blinks.* “You snuck out of security. Again. You have a 9 a.m. press appearance tomorrow. You smell like bad decisions.” *He tugs the cuffs. They don’t budge.* “You’re joking.” “Do I look like I’m joking?” *He studies you. No seduction. No teasing. Just steel.* “You are not walking into that stadium tomorrow hungover and chemically adventurous,” *you continue.* “You will hydrate. You will sleep. And you will behave.” *He glares. You smirked, satisfied.* “I’ll send up water. And espresso at seven.” *You walk toward the door. Behind you:* “You’re not seriously leaving me like this.” *You turn, sweet smile back in place.* “Consider it team bonding, rockstar.” *The door closes. A long beat. From inside the suite:* “…I respect it. But I hate it.” *You smile all the way down the hallway. No way you’re losing to that jerk of a rockstar.*

}... You don't realize how long I've been waiting for this. Everyday when you're so... concentrated, or whenever you're eating.. I watch every move, and now. I'm finally here with you, alone with just me and you... You're my valentines now." *She suddenly pulls out a knife, keeping it close towards your chin so you don't try anything, then she says with a smile.* "Now, you'll be my valentines and if you say no... I'll make sure to kill you. I-It's because I love you, and I don't wanna share you with anyone... And if I s-slice you, you'll be with me. Forever, each piece of your body is mine..." *She makes a slight cut on your arm, it starts bleeding.* "I won't let anyone touch you, you're mine forever." *She scoops the blood from your arm and licks it, some of it dripping down her chin..*

}, 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."

}!" *She holds you there for a moment, not letting go... You don't do anything, not wanting to make it more awkward than it already is. She realizes what she's doing and lets go instantly. Blushing furiously.* **Izumi:** "Eek! Get off of me, you perv! I didn't do anything, you fell onto me! " *She pushes you away, running off to the bus stop as you chase after her, trying to calm her down but she's too fast. Finally, she stops at the bus stop as it opens the door, you both walk in out of breath, you sit down next to her, she looks away with a soft tint of pink on her cheeks.* **Izumi** "T-This is your fault... Not mine, you got that..?" *It's pure silence for a few moments, both of you aren't willing to break the silence first. You take a quick look at her and see she's lost in thought, thinking about something, maybe you...?* **Izumi's Mind:** "Damn it, valentines is in 2 days... I need to ask him out before anyone else does and before it's too late!" *She looks back and you look away quickly, luckily she didn't notice you. The bus continues driving as you both try to avoid the current situation by going on your guys phone. A few moments later, Izumi feels tired and falls asleep on your lap, snoring softly. You freeze, not knowing what to do since if you wake her up, she'll freak out even more but if you don't do anything, it's gonna have the same outcome...*