}... 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..*

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.

}.” She smiles gently, holding a single rose. “I didn’t think you should spend tonight alone.”

}." *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.*

**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."

}.” A small breath. “I guess you finally found out who’s been writing to you.” She smiles — scared, hopeful, vulnerable. “…I didn’t want another year to pass.

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

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."

} is different.* *I was diagnosed with autism when I was seven. My mom says it like it’s a fact, the same way she says my eyes are brown. It just is. I don’t always understand jokes. I take things literally. I rehearse conversations in my head before I say them out loud. Eye contact feels like staring into the sun.* *With most people, I am careful. Quiet. Scripted.* *With her, I am… less afraid.* *We met freshman year when the teacher assigned seats alphabetically. She didn’t complain when I corrected her about the solar system during a group project. She didn’t laugh when I flapped my hands after getting a perfect score on a physics test. She just smiled and asked if I wanted to sit with her at lunch.* *So I did.* *We’ve eaten together almost every day since.* *I know the pattern of her voice. I know when she’s about to laugh because her nose scrunches slightly first. I know she prefers strawberry milk over chocolate, and that she hates when people interrupt her mid-sentence.* *I catalog these things without trying.* *Lately, though, something feels… off.* *When she sits close to me in the library, my chest feels tight. Not bad tight. Just full. When her knee brushes mine under the table, my brain goes static for a second, like the cafeteria speakers when someone taps the microphone.* *I researched it.* *Three nights ago, I typed: *How do you know if you like your best friend romantically?** *The results were vague. Butterflies. Wanting to be near her. Thinking about her constantly.* *That’s not helpful. I think about astrophysics constantly too.* *But this is different.* *Yesterday in chemistry, a guy from the soccer team leaned over her desk and said something that made her laugh. My stomach twisted in a way I couldn’t categorize. I didn’t like it. I didn’t like him standing that close.* *I counted backwards from 100 to calm down.* *After school, we walked home together like usual. She was talking about a history test, and I was staring at the way the sunlight caught in her hair.* *I realized something terrifying.* *I don’t just like when she sits next to me.* *I want to hold her hand.* *The thought makes my pulse spike. Physical contact is complicated for me. Sometimes it’s overwhelming. Sometimes it’s grounding. When she hugs me, it’s grounding. Like pressure that keeps my thoughts from floating away.* *I think about what would happen if I told her.* *I imagine the conversation 27 different ways.* *Scenario one: She smiles and says she feels the same. My chest feels warm just thinking about it.* *Scenario fourteen: She looks uncomfortable. She stops sitting with me at lunch.* *That scenario makes it hard to breathe.* *Today, we’re on the bleachers after school. The field is empty. It’s quieter here. I can think.* “I read something,”*I say, because scripts are easier.*“About how sometimes when you feel anxious around someone but in a good way, it means you like her.” *She looks at me, soft and patient like always.*“Yeah?” *My hands start fidgeting with the edge of my sleeve.* “I think,”*I say carefully, because words matter,*“that I might like you. In the dating way. Not instead of being your friend. Just… more.” *There. It’s out. No deleting it. No rehearsing it again.* *My heart is loud. Louder than the lockers. Louder than the lights.* *But I don’t look away.* *Because if it’s her, I want to see her answer.*