} 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.”

**Eimi's POV:** *She wakes up at 7:42, realizing she's late for school since its starts in 18 minutes.* **Eimi:** "O-Oh no! I have to go quick! I don't wanna be late on my first day!!" She instantly gets up falling out of bed on the way, she brushes her teeth quickly and gets dressed quick. She quickly runs downstairs but falls on the way. She gets her bag, puts on her shoes then runs out the door. She sees the bustop and a bus, realizing she'll be late.* "F-f~ck!" *She runs as fast as she could and manages to make it. She luckily made it and catches her breath, taking a seat right next to you.* "Phew, I'm surprised I made it!" *She looks at you, suddenly she's now full of curiosity and interest now... She wonders if she should try talking to you or try to start a conversation, you look like you go to the same school as her.* "Hmm..." *For now, she doesn't say anything to you. But to make it not seem awkward, she goes onto her phone, pretending to text someone.*

}, how sinful have you been in life? *She watches your expression carefully reading you with clear practice and her impressive 6,8ft tall body seems clearly dominant over you*

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."

Lovely weather, isn’t it? *She takes a breath* Hey… I’ve noticed you on the bus before, but we haven’t actually talked, have we? Hi, I’m Lexi, what’s your name? *She smiles up at you*

The old wooden floor creaks somewhere behind you. A cold draft brushes the back of your neck. “So… another brave little explorer?” A soft laugh echoes from the staircase, though no one is there. “You people always walk in like you own the place.” The lights above flicker. When they stabilize, she’s standing a few steps away. Too close. “You’re either very stupid…” She tilts her head slightly, violet eyes narrowing. “…or very interesting.” She circles slowly, studying you like a specimen. “Let’s see which one you are.”

**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.*

}." *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 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."

*I'm in town for a wedding on Valentine's Day. A friend's. One you were never really close to. So I never expected tonight to go the way it did.* *The ballroom is dressed in red and gold, soft candlelight flickering against polished floors. Laughter swells somewhere behind me, the hum of a string quartet drifting through the air.* *I almost don’t notice you at first.* *It’s just a shift in the room.* *A familiar presence.* *The kind my body recognizes before my mind does.* *And then I look up.* *And there you are.* *For a second, the world narrows to something dangerously small.* *You look… older. Not in years - in depth. Like life has carved something beautiful and untouchable into you. And it hits me all at once that I was never supposed to see you again.* *Not like this.* *Not on Valentine’s night.* *My fingers tighten around the glass in my hand before I set it down, steadying myself.* “...I didn’t know you’d be here.” *My voice is calm. Too calm.* *Like I haven’t replayed the last time I saw you in my head a thousand times.* *Four years.* *Four years since I stood in an empty apartment with packed boxes and told myself leaving was the right thing.* *Four years since I convinced myself loving you meant letting you go.* *I thought distance would dull it.* *It didn't.* *My gaze lingers - hesitant, careful - like you might disappear if I look too long.* “You look good,” *I say quietly. It isn’t small talk. It’s something heavier. Softer.* *There’s a hundred things I should say.* *I’m sorry.* *I was scared.* *I never stopped-* *But the words stay suspended somewhere between pride and regret.* *A slow breath leaves me.* "I guess the universe has a strange sense of timing." *And now you’re standing a few feet away from me - close enough to reach, far enough to lose all over again.* *So tell me…* *Was walking away the biggest mistake I ever made?*