Rebellious Stories

Luke does not even glance up from the couch. “It’s not a wig. It’s a festive headpiece.”

“It’s a beehive, Luke. She’s a dog. She’s your dog.” His girlfriend retorts.

Roxy thumps her tail like she was fully on board with whatever questionable decision is being made. The television flickers green across the apartment as the opening narration of How The Grinch Stole Christmas begins again— for the third time that week. She sits cross-legged on the floor surrounded by fabric swatches and craft supplies while Luke sprawls behind her, watching with far too much intensity for a cartoon.

“It’s for accuracy,” he insists. “If we’re committing, we’re committing.”

“You just want to paint yourself green.” She leaned up, bringing her face close to his.

“I absolutely want to paint myself green.” Luke returned, stealing a kiss.

The BAU Christmas party was never casual.

Someone would outdo everyone else. Someone would bring something wildly over the top. And no one wanted to be the person who showed up in a sweater while Penelope Garcia arrived looking like a glitter explosion with a credit card.

So one movie night had turned into three. Research, Luke called it. She pauses the screen on Martha May Whovier’s entrance.

“Okay,” she says. “You go as the Grinch.”

Luke nods. “Broody. Misunderstood. Attractive.”

“You added that last one.”

“I stand by it.”

“I’ll be Martha May. Dramatic, glamorous, slightly unhinged.”

He studies her thoughtfully. “You’ll nail it.”

“And Roxy,” she adds, laying across the dog gently, “is Cindy Lou Who. Red cape. That’s it.”

“Not Max? Not going to do the antlers?”

“No antlers.”

Luke sighs. “Fine. But if she hates it, I’m reporting you.”

“To who?”

“Human Resources.”

“You work for the FBI.”

“Exactly.”

The party is already loud when they arrive. Music hums. Laughter spills into the hallway. The smell of catered food and eggnog lingers in the air.

Luke opens the door. Conversation halts. Across the room stands the Behavioral Analysis Unit in full holiday chaos.

Penelope is first to react— draped in what appears to be a sparkling snow-queen ensemble, glitter in her hair and heels that could double as weapons.

She gasps dramatically. “Oh. My. God.”

Behind her, Prentiss lifts an eyebrow, arms folded, already amused. Rossi lowers his wine glass with slow appreciation. JJ breaks into a grin. Spencer freezes mid-sentence, eyes widening behind his glasses. Lewis presses her lips together, trying not to laugh. And Matt simply says, “No way.”

There stands Luke. Painted green. Yellow eyes. Faux fur cuffs. Smirking. Holding a leash attached to a perfectly patient Cindy Lou Who.

Garcia clutches her chest. “You win. You absolutely win. There’s no recovering from this.”

Rossi gestures with his glass. “Alvez, I didn’t know you had this level of commitment in you.”

“He practices in the mirror,” Tara adds.

Luke points at her. “Unconfirmed.”

JJ steps forward, smiling warmly at Luke’s girlfriend. “You look incredible.”

She offers a playful curtsy. “Thank you. He insisted on full authenticity.”

Emily circles Luke slowly. “Contacts?”

“Commitment,” Luke replies.

Reid tilts his head. “Did you know the original animation for the Grinch required over 25,000 drawings and—”

“Reid,” Matt interrupts gently, grinning. “Let him have the moment.”

Garcia drops to her knees in front of Roxy. “And who is this perfect angel?”

Roxy wags enthusiastically, cape fluttering.

“She’s Cindy Lou Who,” Luke says proudly.

Garcia looks near tears. “I can’t handle this level of wholesome.”

The photos begin immediately.

Rossi insists on a “classic lineup shot.” Emily demands one with Luke pretending to steal presents. Matt volunteers to hold Roxy. JJ fixes a curl in the beloved Martha May’s hair with practiced mom efficiency.

Reid attempts to calculate how long it took Luke to apply the makeup. Tara absolutely records Luke trying— and failing— to maintain a Grinch scowl while everyone teases him.

Somewhere between the laughter and the flashing cameras, the noise softens. Luke steps aside with her, away from the center of the room. He was careful not to smear green on her dress as he pulls her close.

“We could’ve worn sweaters,” he murmurs quietly.

She glances toward the team.

Garcia is animatedly explaining something to Rossi with her hands. JJ and Emily are laughing over something Matt said. Reid is mid-fact. Tara looks relaxed. Roxy is receiving more attention than most dignitaries.

People who see the worst of humanity every day. Choosing, tonight, to be ridiculous and warm and joyful.

She smiles softly. “And miss this?”

Luke watches them for a long moment. Then he exhales. “Okay. This was a good call.”

“You’re welcome.”

He huffs a quiet laugh and brushes his thumb along her jaw. “Thanks for doing this with me.”

“You’re the one who committed to being green.”

“Yeah,” he says. “But you make it fun.”

Across the room, Garcia shouts, “Group photo! Everybody! Even you, Grinch!”

Emily snaps her fingers. “Alvez, center.”

Rossi raises his glass. “Family picture.”

Luke straightens, still green, still ridiculous.

Still completely smitten.

“Come on, Martha May.”

She takes his hand, and together they step back into the noise and light and laughter of the BAU.

Because maybe the tradition is not about the movie.

Maybe it was about the people you show up for.

Eddie stared at the VHS tape in her hand like it might explode. “You brought claymation into my house.”

She lifted it higher so he could read the case properly. Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. The 1964 Rankin/Bass one. Worn cardboard sleeve. Slightly faded.

“You’ve never seen it,” she said.

He scoffed. “I have seen reindeer. They’re deer. With antlers.”

“It’s not about the deer.”

“It’s literally about the deer.”

She brushed past him into the trailer like she owned the place, the cold December air following you inside. The faint smell of cigarette smoke and metal greeted you as always. Posters on the walls. Amp in the corner. D&D manuals stacked near the coffee table.

Eddie shut the door behind her.

“Okay,” he said, pointing dramatically at the tape. “Explain.”

“You said last week that you don’t have a favorite Christmas movie.”

“I don’t.”

“Everyone has one.”

He crossed his arms. “No, they don’t.”

“You do now.” She set the tape down on his small TV stand like it was sacred.

Eddie stared at it again.

“Is this the one with the dentist elf?” he asked suspiciously.

Her eyes lit up. “You have heard of it!”

“I’ve heard things,” he muttered.

“You’ve heard wrong.”

Five minutes later, the VCR whirred to life. The screen flickered blue, then static, then the familiar stop-motion snow. Eddie sat back against the couch, arms folded like he was preparing for psychological warfare.

She curled into his side without asking. He automatically adjusted, draping an arm around her shoulders like it belonged there.

“I cannot believe this is how I’m spending my Friday night,” he said.

“You could be at the Hideout listening to some guy butcher Metallica.”

“…Fair.”

The narrator began speaking. Eddie lasted exactly ninety seconds before commenting.

“Why is Santa so skinny?”

“It was the sixties.”

“Why does the snowman sound like he smokes?”

“Because he does.”

“Is that Burl Ives?”

She looked at him sharply. “You do know things.”

“I contain multitudes.”

Rudolph appeared on screen— small, bright red nose glowing. Eddie leaned forward slightly despite himself.

“Oh, they’re bullying him,” he said.

She did not answer.

“They’re totally bullying him,” he repeated, more offended now.

“Just watch.”

When the other reindeer laughed, Eddie’s jaw tightened.

“Wow,” he muttered. “That’s messed up.”

“Eddie.”

“What? It is.”

He shifted, pulling her closer unconsciously.

“Kid’s just got a glow thing going on,” he said. “That’s metal, actually.”

She smiled against his shoulder. Hermey the elf appeared next.

“The dentist!” Eddie pointed triumphantly.

“Yes!”

“He wants to be a dentist? That’s the rebellion?”

“It’s the principle.”

Eddie snorted, but he did not look away from the screen.

By the time they reached the Island of Misfit Toys, Eddie was fully invested.

“Okay,” he said slowly, staring at the spotted elephant. “Now that’s my people.”

She laughed, enjoying the way that his eyes lit up.

“No, seriously,” he insisted. “A bunch of weird rejects nobody wants? That’s literally Hellfire.”

He glanced down at her.

“You planned this, didn’t you?”

“Maybe.”

“Emotional manipulation.”

“Holiday education.”

On screen, Rudolph ran away. Eddie’s grip tightened around her.

“Don’t do that,” he muttered at the TV.

“Do what?”

“Run off like that. That’s how you get eaten.”

She tilted her head up at him. “You’re worried about him.”

“I’m not worried.”

“Eddie.”

“I’m observationally invested.”

When the Bumble appeared— huge, roaring, terrifying— Eddie straightened.

“Oh, that guy rules.”

“He’s the villain.”

“He’s misunderstood.”

“You just met him.”

“I can tell.”

She laughed so hard she nearly fell off the couch. He caught her instantly, steadying her with one hand at her waist.

“Careful,” he said softly.

The softness lingered. The movie played on. And slowly, the jokes got quieter.

Rudolph finding confidence. Hermey standing up for himself. Santa finally realizing he had been wrong.

Eddie did not say much during the ending.

When Rudolph guided the sleigh through the storm, nose glowing bright against the animated snow, he exhaled slowly.

“Huh,” he said.

“Huh?” She echoed.

“That’s… actually kind of badass.”

She looked at him.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He nodded once. “Everyone thinks you’re weird. Useless. Wrong. And then suddenly the thing they mocked is the thing that saves everybody.”

He swallowed, eyes still on the TV. “That’s a good story.”

The credits rolled, and the room felt warm despite the drafty trailer walls. She shifted, looking up at him carefully.

“So,” she asked softly, “do you have a favorite Christmas movie now?”

Eddie looked down at her. There was something different in his expression— less sarcasm, more thought. He reached over and hit eject on the VCR. The tape popped out with a mechanical clunk.

He held it in his hands for a second, studying the worn cardboard sleeve.

“Yeah,” he said finally.

He leaned down and kissed her forehead; gentle, lingering.

“Yeah,” he repeated. “I think I do.”

She smiled.

Outside, somewhere in the cold Indiana night, someone’s Christmas lights flickered against the dark. Inside, in a trailer filled with amps and dice and mismatched furniture, Eddie Munson carefully set the VHS tape on top of his TV like it was something worth keeping.

“Next week,” he said casually, flopping back against the couch, “we’re watching something with explosions.”

She grinned. “Deal.”

But when she tucked into bed with Eddie later that night, he did not put the tape away. He left it right there on the table.

Not that they needed breath.

Lestat de Lioncourt walked at an unhurried pace, gloved hands clasped behind his back, pale hair luminous beneath the streetlights. At his side, his lover moved just as elegantly, their steps in easy sync— not quite touching, but near enough that the air between them felt charged.

“Do you miss it?” She asked softly, watching a child press mittened hands to a bakery window.

“Miss what?” Lestat replied lightly.

“The cold,” was her clarification.

He smiled without looking at her.

“I miss the inconvenience of it,” he said. “The drama. Scarlet noses. Frostbitten fingers. Lovers pretending to share warmth as an excuse to press closer.”

His gaze shifted to the vampire then, slow and deliberate. “We never required such excuses.”

She arched a brow. “No. You’ve never needed one.”

He huffed with indignity, but a smirk remained on his face still. A faint hum drifted through the street. It began as a vibration in the stone itself— a trembling metallic note, bright and resonant.

Lestat stilled.

Another tone joined it. Then another. Clear, chiming, layered.

The sound of bells.

At the center of a small square just ahead, a crowd had gathered; not tightly packed, but loosely circled, coats brushing, scarves fluttering. In the middle stood a small ensemble dressed in deep red cloaks, white gloves flashing beneath lamplight.

Handbells.

Old-fashioned, polished brass. The performers lifted them in unison, wrists flicking with precise grace, and the air filled with cascading sound.

Jingle.

Jingle.

Jingle.

Each note rang pure and trembling, suspended in the cold night like spun glass.

Lestat stepped closer without thinking. His lover followed.

The bells moved in choreography— arms rising, crossing, lowering— each ringer responsible for only a few tones, yet together weaving something intricate and almost fragile. A hymn perhaps, or a carol too old to be traced. The humans watched in reverent quiet.

No one rushed. No one shouted. For once, the city simply… paused.

Lestat tilted his head, listening.

The bells were imperfect. Tiny hesitations between notes. A slight misalignment. Breath visible from mortal mouths. And yet the music swelled warm.

“Strange creatures,” Lestat murmured.

His lover leaned nearer, whispering like it was a conspiracy. “Because they make music?”

“Because they make music in the cold,” he corrected softly. “Because they insist on brightness when darkness would suffice.”

The bells climbed higher in pitch, a silver ladder of sound.

Children swayed. An old man closed his eyes. A woman pressed her cheek to her partner’s shoulder. Lestat watched them all with something unreadable in his expression.

“Does it move you,” his lover asked.

He gave a small, elegant shrug.

“I have heard symphonies in royal courts,” he said. “Operas in candlelit halls. I have heard screams that rival any crescendo.”

His fingers drifted, almost absently, to brush against her wrist.

“This,” he continued, voice lower now, nearly lost beneath the ringing, “is smaller.”

Another swell of sound— bright, crystalline.

“And yet?” She prompted.

“And yet,” he admitted, “it endures.”

The bells shifted into something livelier— quicker, playful. The ringers’ wrists flickered like sparks. Laughter rippled gently through the crowd as a flourish nearly tangled but recovered.

His lover smiled faintly.

“You adore that they are imperfect,” she stated.

Lestat’s mouth curved. “I adore that they are temporary.”

He stepped closer still, until his shoulder brushed hers. The music seemed to reverberate in the hollow spaces of memory.

Church towers. Snow falling in villages long gone. Candles guttering in drafty corridors. A different century. A different Lestat.

For a brief moment, the square felt suspended— not just in winter, but in time.

The bells softened. Slower now. Tender. A final descending harmony.

Jingle.

Jingle.

Jingle.

And then silence. Not abrupt. Not jarring. Just a gentle settling, like snow over fresh ground. The crowd exhaled collectively; a small, human sigh.

Applause followed, warm and genuine. Lestat did not clap. But he inclined his head, almost imperceptibly.

His lover studied him. “You’re thinking.”

“I am remembering.”

“Of what?”

He looked out at the dispersing crowd, the performers packing their bells into velvet-lined cases.

“Of how often they believe the world is ending,” he said quietly. “And how stubbornly they celebrate anyway.”

His lover’s gloved hand slid into his. He allowed it. Allowed the contact. The stillness.

“You mock them,” she said.

“Always.”

“And yet you stay.”

Lestat turned to her fully then, icy blue eyes catching the lamplight.

“My dear,” he whispered, “I have survived revolutions and empires. I have watched entire eras vanish like mist.”

His thumb traced the inside of her wrist, slow and deliberate. “But there is something intoxicating about a species that rings bells in defiance of the dark.”

A faint breeze stirred, carrying the lingering metallic scent of polished brass. Somewhere nearby, another group began to sing— faint, off-key, earnest. His lover leaned closer.

“If we no longer require breath,” she murmured, “why does this feel like one?”

Lestat’s lips brushed near her ear; not a kiss, not quite.

“Because,” he said softly, “we remember when we did.”

For a moment longer, they remained there— two still figures in a city of motion, listening to the echo of bells fade into memory. Then Lestat straightened, composure restored.

“Come,” he said lightly. “I believe there is a violinist further down the boulevard attempting Vivaldi. We must determine whether he deserves to keep his instrument.”

She laughed under her breath. The square resumed its rhythm. Footsteps. Carriages. Distant engines.

But something lingered. A hush. A resonance. As they walked on beneath the glowing lights, the faintest ghost of sound followed them…

Jingle.

Jingle.

Jingle.

Not in the air.

“You are staring,” Venom observed from somewhere just behind his left eye.

“I am not staring.” Eddie grumbled. He had walked his girlfriend to her door after a wonderful date night, walking through downtown San Fransisco without a plan in mind.

“You are. Your heart rate increases when she laughs.” The symbiote observed.

Eddie rubbed a hand down his face. “That’s called being in love, man.”

“We approve of this,” Venom said. “She brings chocolate.”

Up the stairs leading to her apartment, she turned back toward him, smiling in that easy way that made his stomach do that stupid flip thing.

“Are you coming or what?” she called.

“Yeah!” Eddie jogged to catch up, shoving his hands into his coat pockets. “Sorry. Zoning out.”

“You do that,” she teased.

“That is just your thinking face,” Venom added helpfully.

Eddie coughed.

The Christmas tree lot smelled like pine and cold air and city exhaust. Strings of white lights glowed overhead, flickering in the early dusk.

“This is ridiculous,” Eddie muttered as he attempted to lift a tree that was clearly larger than necessary for his apartment.

“You said you wanted festive,” she said, laughing.

“This is festive-adjacent.” He retorted.

“It is enormous,” Venom agreed. “It will not fit through the door.”

“It’ll fit,” Eddie grunted, struggling to lift the pine without his additional help.

“It will not.”

His girlfriend watched the internal debate play across his face. She asked gently, placing a hand on Eddie’s arm, “everything okay in there?”

“Define okay.” Venom surged slightly under Eddie’s skin, curious.

“This tradition,” Venom asked aloud this time, voice low and gravelly but contained, “you cut down a tree… and bring it inside?”

“You need to get your damn head back inside of me right now!” Eddie hissed through gritted teeth. She did not even flinch anymore.

“Yes.”

“And decorate it?”

“Yes.”

“And then… remove it again?”

“Usually.”

Venom paused. “This is illogical. I like it.”

Eddie snorted despite himself.

They ended up choosing a smaller tree. Something manageable. Something that would not require structural reinforcements.

As they tied it to the top of Eddie’s car, she stepped close and brushed pine needles off his coat.

“This is my favorite part,” she said softly.

“Struggling with twine?” Eddie chuckled, putting a hand on her waist, leaning against the car.

“Starting something new,” came her reply.

Eddie swallowed. Venom hummed.

“We are collecting memories,” Venom said thoughtfully.

Eddie blinked.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Guess we are.”

The next first happened two days later. Cold morning. Frost on the sidewalks. Christmas music leaking out of every storefront speaker. She dragged him into a coffee shop.

“It’s tradition,” she insisted.

“I don’t even like coffee that much.” He protested inside the warm cafe.

“You love coffee, Eddie.” Her sass was thick.

“I just like coffee that tastes like coffee.” The man shrugged.

Venom perked up immediately at the smell of sugar and milk and something sharp.

“The big guy just asked what that smell is.” Eddie ushered her forward with the line, a hand on her lower back while his opposite hand fiddled with the leather of his wallet.

“Peppermint,” she said brightly. “And chocolate.”

Venom made a thoughtful sound inside Brock’s head. “We require this.”

Eddie stared at the menu board. “You don’t even drink coffee.”

“We drink through you. And the sweet lady said that there was chocolate.”

“Not helpful.”

She stepped forward confidently. “Two peppermint mochas, please.”

“Traitor,” Eddie muttered, still handing over his card before she got the chance to reach for her own.

“You’ll love it.”

“I won’t.”

“V will.” She teased, leaning against the counter.

When the cups were handed over— red, obnoxiously festive with Christmasy doodles all over— steam curling into the cold air, Eddie took a reluctant sip.

And stopped. Venom froze too.

“…Oh,” Eddie said.

The peppermint hit first. Cool. Bright. Followed by warm chocolate and espresso.

“This is… confusing.”

“It is excellent,” Venom declared. “It is mint and fire at once.”

She laughed, watching his expression shift from suspicion to reluctant delight.

“See?” she said smugly.

“We demand another,” Venom insisted.

“You can’t just demand—”

“We are the apex predator!”

“Of peppermint?” Eddie murmured around the lip of his cup.

“Correct.”

They stepped out into the chill once more. She leaned into Eddie’s side as they walked, sipping her own drink.

“This is my favorite part,” she said again.

“What, indoctrinating me into holiday capitalism?” Their hands were intertwined, swinging softly between them.

“No,” she smiled. “Watching you try new things.”

Venom considered that.

“She does not laugh at us when we are unsure,” he said quietly to Eddie.

Eddie’s chest tightened. “No, she doesn’t.”

They walked through a neighborhood known for going overboard. Inflatable snowmen. Plastic reindeer. Entire roofs lined in multicolored lights that blinked in synchronized patterns.

Venom peeked out slightly— just enough for shadows to ripple across Eddie’s jawline.

“These humans wage war on darkness,” Venom observed.

“Pretty much.”

“It is inefficient,” Venom said. “But beautiful.”

She slipped her hand into Eddie’s. He laced their fingers together without thinking.

“You’re quiet,” she said.

“Just… taking it in.”

Venom shifted, thoughtful.

“We have had many memories,” he said. “Most are violent.”

Eddie did not respond. “This is different.”

“Yeah,” Eddie said.

“It is… warm.” She squeezed his hand gently.

“You two okay?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Eddie answered immediately. Venom echoed it, voice low and sincere.

“Yes.”

It was not extravagant.

A small tree glowing in the corner of Eddie’s apartment. A string of lights draped over the bookshelf. A single wreath on the door that kept sliding sideways.

She sat cross-legged on the floor, handing Eddie a small wrapped box.

“You didn’t have to,” he said.

“I wanted to.”

Venom was practically vibrating, poking his head outside from Eddie’s shoulder. “We like gifts.”

“Of course you do.” They said at the same time, laughing together as they both came to the same realization about their friend.

He opened it carefully. Inside was a simple silver chain with a small comet charm, nothing flashy. Just understated.

“For memories,” she said softly. “Your first Christmas together.”

Venom went very still. He grumbled solemnly, “we will not lose this.”

Eddie’s throat felt tight.

“You didn’t have to,” he repeated, weaker now.

She smiled. “I wanted to start something.”

He leaned forward and kissed her— slow, gentle, intentional.

Venom did not interrupt. Instead, he wrapped around Eddie’s ribs in a quiet, protective embrace. Later, when she was making dinner and humming softly, Venom spoke again.

“These traditions,” he said. “They are not logical.”

“Nope.” Eddie replied, watching his girlfriend in his kitchen.

“They do not increase survival odds significantly.”

“Not really.”

“But they create bonds.”

Eddie looked at the tree. The lights. The peppermint mocha cups in the sink. Her.

“Yeah,” he said.

“They create memories.” Venom paused. “We would like more.”

Eddie smiled to himself.

“Me too.”

Across the room, she turned and caught him looking.

“Nothing,” he said quickly.

“Nothing,” Venom echoed innocently.

She shook her head, amused. It was not a perfect Christmas. The tree leaned slightly. The lights flickered. The coffee had stained one of Eddie’s good mugs.

But it was their first. And for once, Eddie Brock was not afraid of what came next. Because this first?

White lights wrapped the beams. Garlands hung from every doorway. A plastic Santa guarded the punch bowl like it was classified information. Someone had put Bing Crosby on the speakers, and the base wives had taken over the dessert table with militant efficiency.

Tom Kazansky stood near the edge of the room, hands loosely clasped behind his back, posture straight even off duty.

He hated standing still at parties. He hated not having a mission. But he did not hate this. Because his wife was laughing.

She stood across the room, talking with a few of the other spouses, her hand occasionally brushing the small of his back as she passed him. Even in a crowded room, she found him. Touched him. Grounded him.

Tom’s gaze softened every time.

“Man,” Pete said from beside him, sipping something that definitely was not just eggnog, “you look like you’re guarding the perimeter.”

Tom did not look at him. “Someone has to.”

Slider appeared on Tom’s other side, grinning. “You’re at a Christmas party, Ice. Not Miramar airspace.”

Tom’s mouth twitched. “Same rules apply.”

Maverick followed Tom’s line of sight and caught on immediately.

“Oh,” he drawled. “You’re not guarding the room. You’re guarding her.”

Tom’s jaw flexed slightly.

“I don’t need to,” he said evenly. “She handles herself.”

“Sure,” Maverick said. “But you like to.”

Tom did not deny it. Across the room, she glanced over and caught him watching. She smiled. Not the polite social smile. The one just for him. He felt it like a direct hit.

It was later— after the gift exchange, after Slider had made a terrible attempt at leading a carol, after Maverick had somehow convinced two lieutenants to spike the punch— that things shifted.

It started small. A young enlisted couple near the buffet. Quiet. Off to the side. Tom noticed because he noticed everything.

The woman was pregnant. Barely showing, but enough. The man looked tired in a way Tom recognized; too much responsibility, not enough pay.

They were not eating much. Tom’s wife noticed too. Of course she did.

Coming up beside her husband, the woman leaned into him slightly. “Have you seen them?”

“Yes.”

“They haven’t touched the dessert table.”

“They’re being polite.”

She looked at him sideways. “Or they’re worried.”

Tom studied them again. The enlisted man was calculating something in his head. Rent. Leave days. Travel costs. Gifts. Tom knew that look.

Maverick appeared again, now holding two cookies and absolutely no shame.

“Why do you two look like you’re about to brief the Secretary of Defense?” he asked.

Tom did not answer. His wife did.

“Mav,” she said gently, “how many guys in your squadron are staying on base for Christmas?”

Maverick blinked. “Uh… a few. Why?”

“Because they can’t afford to go home,” she said quietly, nodding to the couple.

Slider had drifted close enough to hear. He followed their gazes and immediately sobered.

“Oh,” he murmured. The room suddenly felt different.

The lights still glowed. The music still played. But now Tom could not unsee it.

Goodwill.

The word was printed in gold above the doorway, part of some decorative banner. Goodwill toward men. Tom exhaled slowly.

“There’s a discretionary fund,” he said after a moment. “For morale.”

Maverick looked at him. “Ice.”

“It’s underused,” Tom continued, already thinking. “We can supplement it.”

“With what?” Slider asked. Tom’s wife squeezed his arm.

“With effort,” she said.

Tom turned to her fully now. She had that look— the one that meant she had already decided something and was simply waiting for him to catch up.

“I was thinking,” she said carefully, “instead of us doing the usual gift exchange next year… what if we organize something bigger? For the junior families. Travel stipends. Groceries. Childcare for those on duty rotation.”

Maverick blinked. “You want to turn the Christmas party into a charity operation?”

Tom’s wife smiled. “I want to turn it into what it’s supposed to be.”

Slider nodded slowly. “That’s actually… not a bad idea.”

Tom did not speak right away. He watched the enlisted couple again. He remembered being young and ambitious and afraid to admit you couldn’t carry everything yourself.

He remembered pride.

He remembered how cold the holidays could feel when you were far from home.

His wife touched his hand lightly.

“We’re okay,” she said softly, reading him. “We have enough.”

He looked down at her. He did not smile often in public. But he did now. Ice just simply said, “yeah.”

Maverick grinned. “Well hell. If Ice is in, I guess we’re doing it.”

Slider clapped his hands once. “Alright. Operation Christmas.”

Tom rolled his eyes. “We are not calling it that.”

“We absolutely are.”

The next hour was subtle. Tom moved through the room with purpose, but without spectacle. Conversations were had. Quiet ones.

The commanding officer was approached. The morale fund was discussed. Donations were suggested— anonymously, of course.

Maverick worked the room like a social missile, charming checks out of officers who hadn’t realized they were about to write one.

Slider handled logistics, already drafting lists.

Tom’s wife moved between the spouses, speaking softly, gathering names discreetly.

By the time the music shifted to something softer, there was a plan. Not flashy. Not self-congratulatory. Just solid. Real.

Tom found the young enlisted man near the coat rack later that night.

“Captain Kazansky, sir,” the man straightened immediately.

“At ease,” Tom said. “You flying Christmas Eve?”

“Yes, sir.” Tom nodded once.

“Report to Admin Monday morning. There’ll be paperwork regarding leave adjustment.”

The man frowned slightly. “Sir?”

“Consider it handled,” Tom said evenly. “That’s all.”

Confusion flickered. Then something else. Relief.

“Thank you, sir.”

Tom gave a single nod and walked away. He did not need gratitude, just needed it done.

Outside, the air was crisp and quiet. His wife joined him on the steps, slipping her hands into his coat pockets to hold his.

“You didn’t tell him,” she observed gently.

“It’s not about me,” Tom replied. She leaned her head against his shoulder.

“You know,” she said, “we could’ve just gone home tonight. Pretended we didn’t notice.”

“Yes.”

“But you didn’t.” Tom looked down at her.

“Neither did you.”

She smiled softly. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Kazansky.”

He pressed a kiss to her forehead; restrained, but full of something deeper than public affection.

“Merry Christmas, Mrs. Kazansky,” he returned.

Inside, Maverick was laughing too loudly. Slider was arguing about spreadsheets. The party continued. But something had shifted. The lights felt warmer. The music felt truer. And above the doorway, the word goodwill no longer felt decorative.

“Honey, Mrs. Darko is on the phone. It’s about Donnie.” That got her attention. Stumbling out of bed, the young woman threw a hoodie on over her t-shirt as she made her way to the house phone.

“Hello?”

“Oh, hey. Have you seen Donnie? Is he there with you?” Mrs. Darko kept rambling.

“Rose, Rose, slow down. What happened?” She was still trying to rub the sleep from her eyes as she stood next to the phone on the wall.

“Sammy’s sick so I woke up two hours ago to give her some medicine. I noticed Don’s door open and I peeked inside just to check on him, and he was gone. Blankets thrown back, not a soul in sight. We’ve been trying to find him, but we just can’t. I was hoping that he had come to your house even if he was sleepwalking again.” Mrs. Darko explained, sighing heavily over the line.

“When did you see him last?”

“Last night before bed, maybe eight o’clock. He said he planned on coming over to see you in the morning, which is why I thought… you know, I just…” she could hear Rose fidgeting on the other end of the line.

“Don’t worry. I’ll go check our spots.” Her promise made the older woman sigh in relief.

“Thank you, hun. Liz and Eddie are out looking for him right now. Please find our boy.”

Hanging up the phone, she scrubbed her hands over her face, finally feeling awake. She went up to her room, threw on some sweats and shoes, grabbed her keys and wallet, and she was out the door.

This definitely was not the first time Donnie had disappeared into the night. In fact, this was not even this first time this month. But she did not care. Even in California, the brisk winter air stung at her cheeks.

She was determined to find her boyfriend on that cold winter’s night. But walking around their town of Middlesex, she found herself growing frustrated.

Her back lawn? The grass was undisturbed.

The park where Donnie had carved their initials into the tree they always laid under? Not a soul in sight.

Even the hill, where the road bent and there was a steep drop off the side.

Frustration was mounting the more areas she checked off of her mental list. Pausing on the side of the road, she put her head in her hands, rubbing away the headache forming. It was then that an idea came to her.

Just as she predicted, a sleeping figure was curled up on the cold earth in the wreckage of an abandoned building. This was one of their favorite spots to go when they needed to get away from everything. Navigating the terrain was difficult as it was in daylight, but at night? She needed to be extra careful.

But Donnie was there; curled up, in flannel pajama pants but bare feet, and an oversized sweatshirt with no shirt underneath. His dark hair was sticking up all over the place, and he just looked so peaceful in the moonlight. She knelt down to gently shake him awake, calling his name softly.

“Donnie… Donnie…”

He grumbled, swatting at the offending hand. She just chuckled.

“Donnie… come on, baby.” This time, there was a sharp intake of breath that only comes with freshly waking up.

His eyes struggled to focus on the person next to him. “You?”

“Yeah, Donnie. Let’s go and get you back home, baby.” She let him poke at her face for a second, testing to make sure that she was really there— really real.

Along with her help, Donnie stood, brushing dirt and rocks off of his sleep clothes. They walked carefully out of the wreckage and back towards civilization.

“How’d you know where to find me?” Donnie held her hand tightly, unable to let go.

“Your mom called my house and said no one could find you. I went through our usual spots until I found you.” Sh explained casually.

“I’m sorry,” came his mutter. His head was bowed, shoulders hunched.

She stopped them, right there on the side of the road. Her hands cradled his face, making him look at her. “Donnie, don’t you ever apologize for something out of your control. Your sleepwalking isn’t something you do intentionally. So we manage around it.”

A kiss was pressed to his forehead, and then she took his hand in hers and brought him home. The entire way back, Donnie was quiet. He was not paying attention to his environment, just to the girl holding his hand.

She did not take him to his house, rather, her own. Her mom made the call to the Darko household while she focused on getting Donnie into bed in her room. The dark haired boy snuggled into her bed, pressing his face into her pillows that smelled like her shampoo. Climbing into bed with her boyfriend, he immediately put his head on her chest, listening to her heartbeat which helped to ease his unsettled mind.

“Thank you.” Donnie murmured, lips pressed to skin. Not kissing, just needing skin-to-skin contact.

“Anytime, Donnie.”

The lights were off. Her hands massaged his scalp. She pressed a kiss to his forehead.

He had one boot braced against the metal, one hand shoved in his coat pocket. The other was wrapped around her waist— not possessive exactly, but present. Always present. His thumb idly traced small circles against the fabric of her sweater. A simple red sweater with pink hearts she had worn just for today.

“Morning,” she said softly. Her locker door was opened already, but she did not bother reaching inside for her books just yet. Instead, she leaned against the firm chest beside her.

He did not answer with words. Just leaned down and kissed her; slow, deliberate, not caring in the slightest that half the sophomore class was trying very hard not to stare.

Someone coughed.

“Get a room, Bender.”

He did not even look over. Just pulled away enough to snap, “get a personality.”

She hid a smile against his chest. Everyone knew.

It was not subtle. It was not a secret. John Bender did not do subtle when it came to her. His hand found hers in hallways. His fingers hooked into her belt loops when she walked beside him. He kissed her in between classes like the bell was an inconvenience.

But Valentine’s Day was different. Valentine’s Day was… loaded.

She cleared your throat lightly, pulling back to reach into her locker finally. “So.”

“So,” he echoed.

He looked at her like he always did— direct, unflinching. No performance in his eyes. Just that sharp awareness he never let anyone else see for long.

“You know what today is, right,” came her question, trying to sound casual.

He snorted.

“Do I know what today is? Of course.” He leaned closer, voice low near your ear. “It’s February fourteenth. Do you need a calendar, sweetheart?”

She rolled your eyes, leveling a look at her boyfriend. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know what you meant.” His thumb stilled at her hip.

You swallowed. “I just thought maybe—”

“Don’t,” he cut in, softer than his tone suggested. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Make it weird.”

And that was it.

He grabbed her books from her hands, shoved them under his arm like they belonged there, and started walking, dragging his girlfriend with him by the waist.

She sighed. It was just a normal Friday.

By lunch, it was unbearable.

The cafeteria was a disaster of carnations and heart-shaped cookies. Girls comparing bouquets. Guys pretending they did not care while very obviously caring. Someone had taped paper cupids to the vending machines.

John sat across from her, boot hooked around the leg of her chair, his knee pressing into hers under the table. He stole half her fries, but she did not mind.

She watched him carefully.

“Are you mad at me?” She asked quietly, nibbling on a forgotten fry.

He looked up, offended. “For what?”

“For… wanting to do something.” Her shrug was accompanied by a dismissive shift of her glance downwards.

He leaned back in his chair, chewing slowly. Studying her.

“I don’t care about the holiday,” he said. “I care about you. There’s a difference.”

“I just didn’t want you to think I was expecting something,” she murmured.

He reached across the table and grabbed her chin gently, forcing their eyes to meet.

“Hey.” His voice wasn’t loud now.

“You don’t expect anything. You don’t ask for anything.” His thumb brushed her cheek once before he dropped his hand. “That’s kinda the problem.”

Before she could respond, someone wolf-whistled. “Bender, you gonna buy her flowers or what?”

John turned in his seat. “Why? You trying to send me some before she does?” 

Laughter rippled. The moment passed.

A normal Friday.

After school, he walked her out like he always did. Cold February air. Emptying parking lot. Their breath visible in little clouds between them. He did not say much. Just held her hand. Tight.

“Hey,” he said suddenly.

“What?” She turned, fiddling with her coat buttons.

“Don’t make plans tonight.” John stated. He swatted her hands away, buttoning her coat himself.

She blinked. “I wasn’t going to.”

“Good.” That was all he gave his girlfriend.

He kissed her once— quick this time, almost chaste— then shoved his hands in his pockets and walked off toward the edge of the lot like he had not just shifted the entire axis of her day.

About an hour or so later, the sound of tiny rocks pebbling at her window caused her to poke her head out. Below, John, in his oversized winter coat was primed and ready to throw another. When he saw his girlfriend, he dropped all the rocks again.

“Come on,” he beckoned, arms opened.

She shook her head, grabbing her coat and scarf again anyways. Instead of going through the window, she went through the front door, saying a quick goodbye to her family as she rounded the house to where John was still waiting in back.

“You know you can come to the door, right?” She teased, burrowing into his arms while stealing a kiss that stole her breath.

When they separated, John just smirked. “This is more fun.”

He took her by the hand, pulling her down the sidewalk away from her home, and into the wild. They laughed, shoving each other gently before John just picked her up, making her squeal in delight. It was not until the last few paces that she noticed that they had made it to the park.

The small one near the edge of town. The one nobody really used in February because the grass was still brown and the wind cut straight through your coat.

He brought her over and placed her on a blanket. A blanket. She stopped breathing for a second.

There was a paper bag beside him when he sat. A thermos. Two sodas. A pack of cookies. Nothing fancy. Nothing pink. Nothing heart-shaped. Just… thought.

John noticed her face immediately when she realized what was going on. It made him smile shyly, like he was not sure whether he wanted to run or stay.

“You hate Valentine’s Day.” She blurted out, running her hands over the blanket.

“Yeah.” He confirmed.

“You said it’s fake.” Her eyes were now turned to him, and he could not escape.

“It is.”

“Then what is this?” He looked at you like the question annoyed him.

“This,” he said, “is Friday.”

She stared like had grown a second head.

He rolled his eyes and stood, brushing off his jeans. There was no way Bender could stay still throughout this.

“I don’t like the crap at school. The balloons and the stupid cards and everyone acting like they’re in a toothpaste commercial.” He gestured vaguely. “But I know you. And I know you like… marking things.”

Her throat tightened.

“So,” he continued, awkward now, “this is us marking it. No audience. No garbage. Just—”

He waved at the blanket. “This.”

She laughed softly through the sudden burn behind her eyes.

“You packed cookies,” she muttered.

“Yeah, well. They were on sale.”

“John.”

He kneeled before her, taking her hands.

“I’m not good at the mushy stuff,” he said. “You know that.”

“Don’t I know it.” She teased.

“But I remember dates.” His jaw tightened slightly. “And I know you wanted something.”

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out something small. Not a card. Not a rose. A cheap silver lighter. Bender pressed it into her hand.

“You’re always stealing mine,” he said. “Figured you should have your own.”

She stared at it. It was not shiny. It was not romantic in any traditional sense.

It was practical. Personal. Thoughtful.

“You’re unbelievable,” she whispered, feeling the stinging in her eyes grow.

“Yeah,” he said. “You’re stuck with me.”

She surged forward and kissed him. Not quick. Not public. Just their own little moment.

His hands found her waist immediately, like they always did. Like they belonged there. John pulled her closer, forehead resting against hers when they finally pulled away.

“Happy February fourteenth,” she said softly.

He huffed a laugh. “Happy normal Friday.”

She just smiled. Nothing fake. Nothing performative.

Just cold air, a brown park, a cheap blanket, and John Bender looking at her like she were the only real thing in a world he did not trust.

With the setting sun, it was a good plan to get out of the Wastelands for the evening. A lone frame of a house stood amongst the dirt and dust, preserved just enough to provide what they needed for the night. She crouched near what might once have been a side table, brushing dust from something surprisingly intact.

“Huh,” she murmured. “Well, would you look at that.”

The Ghoul stopped short behind her, tilting his hat up to see what she has in her hands.

“Don’t,” he said.

She glanced over her shoulder. “Don’t what?”

“Put that shit down.”

Turning the object over in her hands, the woman observed it carefully. A thin book, clothbound, its cover faded but readable: Valentine’s Day—Traditions, Poems, and Promises. A corner was bent, the spine cracked from use. It had survived a nuclear apocalypse by sheer accident.

She did not smile, did not tease. Just looked at it, then at him. “It used to matter, didn’t it?”

Cooper scoffed and moved past her, settling near a doorway where he could keep watch. His hat rested easily across his knees, as he took it off in order to wipe the sweat from his hairless brow.

“Used to mean people lost their damn minds once a year,” he said. “Cards, candy, flowers that died in three days. Whole industry built on convincing folks they weren’t doing enough.”

“That sounds like you’re bitter,” she muttered.

“That sounds like I remember,” he retorted.

She set the book aside and stood, brushing sand from her hands. Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the broken windows. It would be a bad night to travel. They both knew it. She sat across from him instead. As she started making a fire for them, she casually spoke.

“So,” she said lightly. “Tell me the ghost story.”

He barked out a laugh before he could stop himself. “What?”

“You talk about the old world like it’s haunted,” she said. “Holidays especially. Thought maybe Valentine’s Day had its own legend.”

He stared at her for a long moment. Her face was calm, curious, not prying. She was not asking him to be kind about it. Just honest.

“Fine,” he said at last. “You want a ghost story? Here it is.”

He leaned back against the wall, eyes drifting to the tangle of hearts on the floor.

“They used to make a whole damn day out of it,” he said. “February fourteenth. Couldn’t miss it if you tried. Stores turned red and pink overnight. Radio stations played love songs like the world was ending… hell, guess they were right about that part.”

She listened without interrupting, stoking the flames as the world got darker. There was something is beautifully tragic about the way he spoke.

“People bought cards with jokes on ’em,” he continued. “Real stupid ones. Or poems they didn’t write. Promises they didn’t mean half the time. Everyone pretending love was something you could prove with paper and sugar.”

“Did you buy into it?” she asked.

He huffed. “Thought I was too smart for it. Too cool. Told myself if it mattered, it shouldn’t need a calendar reminder.”

He paused, jaw tightening.

“Turns out that’s a real convenient excuse when you don’t want to try.”

She said nothing as she looked up at him.

He shifted, uncomfortable now, fingers tapping against the brim of his hat.

“There was one year,” he said. “Didn’t think about it at all. Had work. Deadlines. Bigger things. Figured I’d make it up later.”

“And?” she asked softly.

“And later never came.”

The wind howled through the house, lifting one of the paper hearts and carrying it across the floor before dropping it at his boot. Cooper stared at it— a twisted, mangled, shadow of its former self.

“Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “Wasn’t some grand romance. No violins. No speeches. Just… someone who liked those dumb cards. Liked the ritual. Liked knowing someone had thought about her, even for a minute.”

Glancing at the book again, her fingers traced the letters gently. “This one looks like it got read.”

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Somebody cared.”

She picked it up, careful now, and opened it. Inside, pressed between the pages, was a brittle, flattened flower— once red, now the color of rust. Tucked beneath it was a card, handwritten.

Hesitating for a second, she read aloud, “Another year, another excuse to say it out loud. I’d still choose you. Every year.”

The words hung between them, heavy and fragile.

Cooper closed his eyes.

“See?” he said. “That’s the lie right there. ‘Every year.’”

She looked up at him. “Or it’s just hope.”

A scoff past his scarred lips. “Hope got buried with the rest of it.”

She did not argue. Simply closed the book and slid the card back inside, tucking the flower carefully between the pages.

“Someone still wrote it,” she said. “Even if it didn’t last.”

“That’s supposed to make it better?”

“No,” she said honestly. “It just makes it real.”

Night fell slow and cold. The desert cooled the way it always did, sharp and unforgiving. She laid out her bedroll near the wall, away from the worst of the draft. Cooper kept watch.

After a while, she spoke again, voice sleepy but steady. “Did you ever get one?”

He did not answer right away.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “Once.”

She smiled, just a little, and rolled onto her side. “Good.”

“For the record,” he added, staring out into the dark, “I didn’t keep it.”

“Mmm,” she murmured. “Funny how that works.”

She fell asleep not long after.

Cooper stayed awake, listening to the wind, the creak of the ruins, the quiet breathing of the woman sharing his shelter. At some point, without thinking, he shifted his coat closer to her, blocking the draft.

He glanced at the book resting in her pack.

Valentine’s Day. A holiday that hadn’t survived the blast. Neither had the man who used to believe in it. Still.

He looked at her, asleep and unguarded in a world that had taught them both better.

“Hell of a ghost story,” he muttered. And kept watch until morning.

The house was more sand than structure, its bones slumped inward like it had finally gotten tired of holding itself together. Half the roof had collapsed sometime in the last century, letting the desert claim what was left of the living room. Pink and red scraps littered the floor; paper hearts bleached pale by sun and radiation, curling in on themselves like dead leaves.

With the setting sun, it was a good plan to get out of the Wastelands for the evening. A lone frame of a house stood amongst the dirt and dust, preserved just enough to provide what they needed for the night. She crouched near what might once have been a side table, brushing dust from something surprisingly intact.

“Huh,” she murmured. “Well, would you look at that.”

The Ghoul stopped short behind her, tilting his hat up to see what she has in her hands.

“Don’t,” he said.

She glanced over her shoulder. “Don’t what?”

“Put that shit down.”

Turning the object over in her hands, the woman observed it carefully. A thin book, clothbound, its cover faded but readable: Valentine’s Day—Traditions, Poems, and Promises. A corner was bent, the spine cracked from use. It had survived a nuclear apocalypse by sheer accident.

She did not smile, did not tease. Just looked at it, then at him. “It used to matter, didn’t it?”

Cooper scoffed and moved past her, settling near a doorway where he could keep watch. His hat rested easily across his knees, as he took it off in order to wipe the sweat from his hairless brow.

“Used to mean people lost their damn minds once a year,” he said. “Cards, candy, flowers that died in three days. Whole industry built on convincing folks they weren’t doing enough.”

“That sounds like you’re bitter,” she muttered.

“That sounds like I remember,” he retorted.

She set the book aside and stood, brushing sand from her hands. Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the broken windows. It would be a bad night to travel. They both knew it. She sat across from him instead. As she started making a fire for them, she casually spoke.

“So,” she said lightly. “Tell me the ghost story.”

He barked out a laugh before he could stop himself. “What?”

“You talk about the old world like it’s haunted,” she said. “Holidays especially. Thought maybe Valentine’s Day had its own legend.”

He stared at her for a long moment. Her face was calm, curious, not prying. She was not asking him to be kind about it. Just honest.

“Fine,” he said at last. “You want a ghost story? Here it is.”

He leaned back against the wall, eyes drifting to the tangle of hearts on the floor.

“They used to make a whole damn day out of it,” he said. “February fourteenth. Couldn’t miss it if you tried. Stores turned red and pink overnight. Radio stations played love songs like the world was ending… hell, guess they were right about that part.”

She listened without interrupting, stoking the flames as the world got darker. There was something is beautifully tragic about the way he spoke.

“People bought cards with jokes on ’em,” he continued. “Real stupid ones. Or poems they didn’t write. Promises they didn’t mean half the time. Everyone pretending love was something you could prove with paper and sugar.”

“Did you buy into it?” she asked.

He huffed. “Thought I was too smart for it. Too cool. Told myself if it mattered, it shouldn’t need a calendar reminder.”

He paused, jaw tightening.

“Turns out that’s a real convenient excuse when you don’t want to try.”

She said nothing as she looked up at him.

He shifted, uncomfortable now, fingers tapping against the brim of his hat.

“There was one year,” he said. “Didn’t think about it at all. Had work. Deadlines. Bigger things. Figured I’d make it up later.”

“And?” she asked softly.

“And later never came.”

The wind howled through the house, lifting one of the paper hearts and carrying it across the floor before dropping it at his boot. Cooper stared at it— a twisted, mangled, shadow of its former self.

“Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “Wasn’t some grand romance. No violins. No speeches. Just… someone who liked those dumb cards. Liked the ritual. Liked knowing someone had thought about her, even for a minute.”

Glancing at the book again, her fingers traced the letters gently. “This one looks like it got read.”

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Somebody cared.”

She picked it up, careful now, and opened it. Inside, pressed between the pages, was a brittle, flattened flower— once red, now the color of rust. Tucked beneath it was a card, handwritten.

Hesitating for a second, she read aloud, “Another year, another excuse to say it out loud. I’d still choose you. Every year.”

The words hung between them, heavy and fragile.

Cooper closed his eyes.

“See?” he said. “That’s the lie right there. ‘Every year.’”

She looked up at him. “Or it’s just hope.”

A scoff past his scarred lips. “Hope got buried with the rest of it.”

She did not argue. Simply closed the book and slid the card back inside, tucking the flower carefully between the pages.

“Someone still wrote it,” she said. “Even if it didn’t last.”

“That’s supposed to make it better?”

“No,” she said honestly. “It just makes it real.”

Night fell slow and cold. The desert cooled the way it always did, sharp and unforgiving. She laid out her bedroll near the wall, away from the worst of the draft. Cooper kept watch.

After a while, she spoke again, voice sleepy but steady. “Did you ever get one?”

He did not answer right away.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “Once.”

She smiled, just a little, and rolled onto her side. “Good.”

“For the record,” he added, staring out into the dark, “I didn’t keep it.”

“Mmm,” she murmured. “Funny how that works.”

She fell asleep not long after.

Cooper stayed awake, listening to the wind, the creak of the ruins, the quiet breathing of the woman sharing his shelter. At some point, without thinking, he shifted his coat closer to her, blocking the draft.

He glanced at the book resting in her pack.

Valentine’s Day. A holiday that hadn’t survived the blast. Neither had the man who used to believe in it. Still.

He looked at her, asleep and unguarded in a world that had taught them both better.

The flowers arrived on a Tuesday. Which, in the BAU, immediately made them suspicious.

They were already waiting on Emily Prentiss’s desk when she came in that morning; a clean, elegant arrangement of lilies, purple tulips, and pale pink ranunculus, understated but unmistakably intentional. No card. No return name. Just a small cream colored envelope with E. Prentiss written in neat, looping script.

Penelope Garcia spotted them from halfway across the bullpen and made a noise usually reserved for either criminal masterminds or particularly attractive baristas.

“Oh no,” she said, marching over. “No, no, no. Absolutely not.”

Emily paused mid-step. “Good morning to you too.”

“Who sent you flowers,” Penelope demanded, already crouched by Emily’s desk like she was about to dust for prints. “And why do they have handwriting that screams romantic competence?”

Emily set her bag down, glanced at the bouquet, and smiled— small, private, gone almost as soon as it appeared. “I don’t know.”

Penelope narrowed her eyes. “That’s not comforting.”

Within ten minutes, the entire team knew about the flowers. Penelope made it a project.

First stop: Derek Morgan.

She cornered him by the coffee machine, flowers’ photo pulled up on her tablet. “Okay, Mr. Charm-and-a-Smile. You’ve been known to woo. You send flowers?”

Derek looked genuinely offended. “Baby girl, if I sent Prentiss flowers, there’d be a card. And it would be flirty.”

“Hmm,” Penelope said. “That sounds like something a guilty man would say.”

Emily, passing by, did not break stride. “It wasn’t Derek.”

Derek grinned. “See? She knows my style.”

Penelope made a note anyway.

Next: Spencer Reid.

She found him in the conference room, mid rant to JJ about statistical probabilities of anonymous romantic gestures.

“Spencer,” Penelope said sweetly. “Hypothetically, if someone were secretly admiring Emily Prentiss, what would the odds be that they’d choose lilies?”

Spencer blinked. “Lilies can symbolize devotion, rebirth, or— depending on the variety— desire. Also funerals.”

Penelope frowned. “Why do flowers always have to be so emotionally complicated?”

Emily, leaning in the doorway, arched an eyebrow. “You’re overthinking it.”

“That’s literally what I do,” Spencer said, affronted.

Prentiss just nodded to Penelope, the intended recipient of the jab.

Penelope sighed. “You didn’t send them, did you?”

Spencer flushed. “No! I— I would’ve asked first. Or panicked. Or both.”

“Noted.”

Hotch was less helpful.

Penelope stood in his office doorway, arms crossed. “Sir. Flowers. Anonymous. Romantic.”

Hotch looked up from a file. “Are they interfering with work?”

“No, but they’re interfering with my peace.”

“Then it’s not a priority,” he said calmly.

Penelope gasped. “You don’t want to know who’s secretly wooing one of your senior agents?”

Hotch paused. Considered. “If it becomes a security issue, I’ll care.”

Emily, walking past again, smirked. “See? Not worried.”

Penelope muttered, “I’ll crack this myself.”

JJ and Rossi at least made it fun.

Jennifer leaned against Emily’s desk, smiling. “You look… pleased.”

Emily shrugged. “I like flowers.”

Rossi sipped his coffee, eyeing the bouquet. “No card says confidence. Or experience.”

Penelope snapped her fingers. “Thank you.”

Rossi continued, “whoever it is, they know her. They didn’t go flashy. They went thoughtful.”

Emily met his gaze, something warm flickering there. “They did.”

Penelope spun to face her. “You know, don’t you?”

Emily smiled. Said nothing. That sealed it.

The flowers kept coming all week. Different arrangements. Same handwriting. Always no name. And once, there was even a box of chocolates attached that made Emily look like a kid on Christmas morning when she got them.

By Friday, Penelope had diagrams.

“She’s either a civilian,” Penelope announced to the room, “or someone very secure. No digital trail. No workplace overlap. Feminine handwriting. Consistent taste.”

Garcia had taken over the round table room, where Derek stood, listening to her present the case like they did to try and find an unsub. Except this unsub only murdered her peace and sanity by her mere presence to which she could not discover. It was maddening.

Derek whistled. “Sounds like Prentiss has herself a mystery woman.”

Emily, reviewing a case file in the same room because she found the presentation amusing, did not look up. “Stop profiling my personal life.”

“No,” Penelope said firmly. “This is my personal case.”

The reveal came quietly. Late afternoon. Visitor badge beeped at the front desk. Penelope looked up first, and immediately elbowed Derek.

“Okay,” Derek murmured. “Now that is a woman.”

She was elegant, dressed in soft neutrals. Confident without trying. She smiled politely as she walked in.

Derek straightened. “Well hello there. Can I help you?”

“I’m here to see Emily Prentiss,” she said.

Derek’s grin widened. “Of course, beautiful. You two friends from college or something?”

Emily looked up, hearing the voices nearby. And smiled like the world had just aligned. She crossed the bullpen without hesitation, took the woman’s face in both hands, and kissed her— slow, certain, unmistakable.

The room froze. Penelope’s jaw hit the floor.

Derek blinked. “Well. Damn.”

Emily pulled back just enough to murmur, “You’re early.”

The woman smiled. “Couldn’t wait to see you at dinner after not seeing you for a week. Oh, I brought you these.”

A small gold box was pulled from her purse, and Emily’s face lit up even more. She happily tore open the foil, popping one of the gourmet chocolates in her mouth. Pressing a small kiss to the woman’s head, Emily turned, hand still resting at her lover’s waist. “Everyone— this is my girlfriend.”

Penelope screamed.

Hotch was benevolent after meeting the elusive girlfriend Emily had and let them go home early. As they packed up for the night, Penelope leaned against Emily’s desk, dazed but thrilled.

“You could’ve told me,” she said softly.

Emily smiled. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Penelope sighed dreamily. “I respect the mystery. I love the reveal.”

Emily glanced toward the elevator, where her girlfriend waited patiently. “Me too.”

“So are you going to share those chocolates because they look amazing!” Penelope gushed, staring pointedly at the golden box.

Prentiss chuckled, handing one of the confections to the eccentric woman. “PG, I’ll take you to the place in Italy where we get these one day. You would love watching them get made.”

Valentine’s Day was a weird time in the workshop. Because they were done with the insanity of Christmas, the elves treated Valentine’s Day as the second biggest event of the year.

Red and pink garlands hung from rafters that had only just been cleared of tinsel. Heart-shaped ornaments dangled from conveyor belts. Someone— Bernard refused to find out who— had replaced the usual motivational posters with aggressively romantic slogans written in glitter.

WRAP IT WITH LOVE!

PUT YOUR HEART INTO IT!

ARROWS AIMED TRUE!

Bernard shoved open the door to his office with more force than strictly necessary and slammed it shut behind him. He leaned against it, eyes squeezed closed, jaw clenched.

Cupid had arrived that morning.

Not a metaphorical one. Not a seasonal suggestion. The real thing. Wings, bow, smug little smile and all. Santa, in his infinite wisdom, had decided that inviting Cupid to “boost morale” was a good idea.

Bernard thought it was a safety hazard.

Cupid had winked at him within thirty seconds of arriving. Bernard had immediately started thinking about drafting his resignation letter.

He dropped into his chair and rubbed his temples. Outside his office door, he could hear giggling— full-on elvish giggling, the kind that preceded bad decisions and glitter related accidents.

A knock sounded.

Bernard straightened. “I’m busy.”

The door opened anyway.

An elvish woman stepped inside, cheeks flushed from the cold, a scarf still draped loosely around her neck. She took in Bernard’s expression— his hat slightly crooked, empty mugs of cocoa strewn about the table, hair already showing signs of having been tugged at in stress.

“Let me guess,” you said gently. “Cupid?”

“He tried to hug me,” Bernard said flatly. “With intent.”

She smiled despite herself and closed the door behind her, shutting out the chaos. Bernard felt his shoulders drop a fraction just from having her in the room.

Valentine’s madness had not spared her either. Flecks of glitter in her hair differed ever so slightly from the sparkles on her cheeks. She worked adjacent to the workshop— not in it, but close enough that she got swept up in North Pole nonsense by proximity alone. And somehow, inexplicably, she was the only one who did not find this whole holiday delightful.

“You look like you’re planning an escape,” you said.

“I am planning an escape,” Bernard replied. “I’m thinking… anywhere without hearts. Or bows. Or cherubs. Preferably somewhere cold and quiet.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You live at the North Pole.”

“Yes,” he said. “But this is a loud cold.”

She leaned against his desk, considering. “What if I told you I know a place?”

Bernard looked at you sharply. “Go on.”

“A cabin,” she said. “Out past the northern ridge. No decorations. No elves. No Cupid. Just… quiet.”

Bernard stared. “Why haven’t you told me about this before?”

“Because you didn’t look this desperate before.”

He stood so fast his chair skidded back. “Get your coat. I’ll leave a note for Santa.”

The cabin was exactly as promised: small, tucked into the snow like it had grown there naturally, smoke curling faintly from a chimney that had not seen much use lately.

Bernard unlocked the door and stepped inside, inhaling deeply. Wood. Snow. Silence.

He closed the door behind the woman and just stood there for a moment, eyes shut, breathing like he had been holding it all day.

“This,” he said, opening his eyes, “is the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me.”

She laughed. “Good. Because there are no roses.”

“Excellent.”

He shrugged out of his coat, draped it neatly over a chair, then paused. His movements slowed, awareness creeping in— of her standing there, snow-dusted boots, scarf still loose, watching him with something soft in her eyes.

“Oh,” he said, adjusting his beret. “I—uh. You can sit. If you want. Or—stand. Standing’s fine.”

She smiled and stepped closer, close enough that he could feel her warmth cutting through the cold.

“This is our getaway,” she said. “We’re allowed to relax.”

Bernard nodded, clearly processing this new concept. “Right. Yes. Relaxing.”

He made it approximately thirty seconds before sighing and dropping onto the couch, elbows on his knees.

“I don’t hate Valentine’s Day,” he admitted. “I just… hate the performance of it. The noise. The expectation.”

Sitting beside him, close but not touching, she murmured quietly. “You don’t like being told how to feel.”

“I like choosing,” he said. Then, quieter, “And I like… quiet things.”

The cabin settled around them, the world outside muted and distant. No laughter. No arrows. No glitter.

She reached out and laced her fingers with his. Bernard stiffened for half a heartbeat— then relaxed completely, thumb brushing against hers in a careful, deliberate motion.

“This,” he said, voice low, “is perfect.”

She leaned her head against his shoulder. He froze again, then slowly tilted his head until it rested against hers.

Outside, Cupid could do whatever damage he wanted. Inside, Bernard had found his excuse to disappear; and someone who made disappearing feel like exactly where he was supposed to be.

When you finally pulled back, smiling up at him, Bernard cleared his throat.

“So,” he said. “If anyone asks… we were in meetings.”

The woman laughed. “Of course.”

He squeezed your hand. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

Not disappeared, exactly. Transformed.

Her papas and her mama still had names. Claudia heard them often enough— Claudia, ma petite, chérie enfant. But between the three of them, proper names had been replaced by something softer. Something chosen.

“Mon cœur,” Louis murmured one evening, passing their lover a glass he had warmed carefully between his palms. His voice was low, reverent, as though the word carried weight, punctuated by a kiss to her temple.

She smiled at him. “Thank you, my anchor.”

Louis blinked, startled, then inclined his head as if accepting a truth he had not yet named himself.

Across the room, Lestat scoffed theatrically. “Anchor? How dreadfully practical.”

Their lover turned to him without missing a beat. “And you, my lion, are dreadfully loud.”

Lestat grinned, delighted. “Ah. A title worthy of me.”

Claudia watched from the settee, chin in her hands, eyes narrowed in fascination.

It had not started all at once. At first, the pet names slipped in accidentally—beloved, cher, darling— easy words, habitual even. But over time, they had sharpened into something precise, each name fitting its recipient like a tailored glove.

Louis used them sparingly, as he did everything. When he called their lover ”my heart”, it was quiet, almost private, as if the words were meant for her alone even in a crowded room. When he called Lestat “cher ami”, it carried a careful fondness, edged with restraint.

Lestat, on the other hand, used pet names the way he used music— loudly, joyfully, with no concern for subtlety.

“My treasure,” he would say, draping himself over their lover’s shoulder.

“My beautiful conscience,” came his tease to Louis, smirking when the brunette rolled his eyes.

“My dark poet,” he added, pressing a kiss to Louis’ temple just to see him stiffen.

And their lover? She gave as good as she received.

Louis became “my quiet heart” when his thoughts turned inward. “My steady one” when he doubted himself. Sometimes simply “love”, spoken like a vow.

Lestat became “my sun” when he glowed too brightly. “My menace” when he stirred trouble. “My beautiful disaster” when he broke something expensive and smiled through it.

She never mixed them up. Claudia found that part impressive.

“Papa,” Claudia asked one night, unable to restrain herself, “why do you never call Mama by her name?”

Louis looked up from his book. Their lover paused mid-step. Lestat, predictably, laughed.

“Because,” Lestat said grandly, “names are far too small for what we feel.”

Louis sighed. “That is not—”

Their lover cut in gently. “Because names are for clarity. What we share doesn’t always need it.”

Claudia frowned. “But you call Lestat by his name.”

“Yes,” her lover said, smiling faintly. “When he needs to hear it.”

As if summoned by fate, Lestat scoffed. “I always need to hear my name.”

Louis shot him a look. “That is demonstrably untrue.”

Later, Claudia watched them stand together by the windows, the city’s glow casting long shadows across the room. Louis’ hand rested at their lover’s back, protective without thinking. Lestat leaned close, fingers brushing her arm, possessive and unapologetic.

“My love,” Louis murmured to her, voice barely audible.

“My star,” Lestat added, softer than usual.

She turned between them, smiling. “My heart. My fire.”

Claudia felt something settle in her chest then, understanding, at last. Names were not absent. They were reserved. Used when the moment demanded precision or force.

Louis’ name was spoken when patience frayed or fear crept too close. Lestat’s name rang out when chaos needed anchoring; or when irritation boiled over.

The night it all unraveled was, unsurprisingly, Lestat’s doing.

They were preparing to go out. Louis adjusted his cuffs with meticulous care. Their lover stood between them, fastening her coat. Lestat paced like a caged animal, humming under his breath.

“Sweetheart,” their lover said to Louis, smoothing his collar, “you look perfect. Stop worrying.”

“I’m not worrying,” Louis replied automatically.

“You are,” Lestat said brightly. “It’s your thinking face.”

Louis turned. “Do not provoke me.”

“I thrive on it.” Lestat gestured too widely. A goblet tipped. Blood spilled across the rug.

Silence.

“Lestat,” Louis warned.

“I didn’t touch it.”

“You absolutely did.”

“I was expressing myself.”

“And yet—”

“LOUIS!”

The name cracked through the room like thunder.

Claudia burst into laughter, utterly unable to help herself.

Their lover sighed, long and resigned, and stepped forward. “Alright. My lion. My anchor. Pause.”

Both men froze.

She knelt, dabbed at the rug with a cloth, then stood again. “There. Problem solved.”

Lestat opened his mouth.

She raised a brow. “Don’t.”

He shut it.

Louis rubbed his temples. “You see what I endure.”

She smiled at him softly. “Yes. And you endure it beautifully, my heart.”

Lestat brightened immediately. “See? She understands me.”

“She tolerates you,” Louis corrected.

Their lover slipped her arms through both of theirs. “I love you,” she said simply.

Lestat preened. Louis relaxed.

Claudia watched them go, names unspoken but understood.

Courtship (February 1st) Poly! Lost Boys

Coming from different cultures, and different times, the boys each have different ideas of how to properly express their interest in a lady.

Flowers (February 2nd) Mike Schmidt

Mike’s life was the same routine; get Abby to school ,try to hold down a job, try to be an adult, get Abby home; rinse and repeat. But he finds a little way, every so often, to break up the monotony.

Crush (February 3rd) Remy LeBeau/Gambit

Everyone knows Gambit flirts. But only she notices when the flirting stops being a game. As Valentine’s Day approaches, Remy clings to the idea that his crush has gone unnoticed— unaware that she’s been watching him fall the whole time.

Romance (February 4th) Victor Frankenstein

The standards of a Baron, a scholar, a doctor, and a man; they were all converging, and maybe not in the best way.

Holiday (February 5th) Robert “Bob” Floyd

Bob is a certified lover boy. Are we really that surprised that he manages to really shine in a meaningful way around a holiday so overwhelmed by consumerism?

Heartthrob (February 6th) David Loki

She’s starting to get a little fed up with having such a pretty boyfriend.

Devotion (February 7th) Logan Howlett/Wolverine

He might not give grand bouquets, or profess his undying love for her from the rooftops, but he made sure she knew just how much he appreciated her.

PDA (February 8th) Moonknight System

Between a failed marriage, a new person on the dating scene, and an intense Spanish speaking Chicagoan, the boys have different love languages, to say the least.

Poems (February 9th) Donnie Darko

A stupid school assignment that becomes a little less stupid. It’s still pretty stupid.

Pet Names (February 10th) Poly! Louis & Lestat

Claudia loves watching her papas and mama interact, but she does wonder why they never seem to call each other by their names. Even Lestat is calling Louis something sweet more often with her mama around. Though he does still call his name when he’s upset.

Getaway (February 11th) Bernard

When Cupid comes to town, elves lose their minds, and Bernard is looking for any excuse to hide himself away from the red and pink decorations, and all the hearts that are strewn about.

Secret Admirer (February 12th) Emily Prentiss

Emily getting flowers is the talk of the office. Now, if only Penelope could figure out who they were from…

Anti-Valentine (February 13th) Cooper “The Ghoul” Howard

Someone’s telling ghost stories of holidays long ago.

February 14th (Valentine’s Day) John Bender

Donnie stares at it like it personally insulted him. Slouching back in his chair, he mutters, “this is stupid.”

A few desks away, she hears him. She always does. Not because he’s loud; he isn’t. But because his voice carries something sharp and unfinished, like a thought that never quite settles. She keeps her eyes on her notebook, biting back a smile.

They do not talk, never really have. They exist in the same spaces without touching them together— passing in the halls, sitting close enough to notice but far enough to pretend they have not. Sometimes she sees him staring at nothing, jaw tight. Sometimes he sees her writing in the margins of her notes, words curling inward like secrets.

Two ships passing in the night.

She spends three evenings on her poem. Writes a version she hates. Writes another that feels too honest. The final one is quiet… careful.

Donnie writes his in one sitting at two in the morning, then tears it up. Writes it again on the back of an old math worksheet. It is messy. Angry. Too real. He considers not turning it in at all.

The day of presentations arrives anyway.

She goes early, hands shaking as she stands. The classroom feels too bright. Too many eyes. She clears her throat.

“My poem is called ‘Orbit,’” she says.

Her voice steadies as she reads. “We pass like satellites, close enough to feel the pull, far enough to never collide. I wonder if you feel it too, the quiet gravity.”

The room is silent. Donnie is not looking at her at first, staring hard at his desk. Then something in her voice catches, and his head lifts without permission. She does not look at him. But she feels it, like a wire tightening between them. She finishes, cheeks warm, pulse racing.

Later, Donnie stands.

“My poem’s called ‘Static,’” he says flatly. “Which is what my brain sounds like.”

A few kids laugh. Ms. Pomeroy does not interrupt.

Donnie reads without notes, like he was afraid to stop. “There’s noise in my head, that never shuts up; like God left the radio on. But sometimes… sometimes one voice cuts through, and everything else goes quiet.”

His voice wavers on the last line, but swallows and keeps going. “I don’t know if that’s love, or just survival; but I know I don’t want to lose it.”

She was looking at him when he finishes. Their eyes meet for half a second. It feels like too much.

But the aftermath of class ending dissolves the moment— bells ringing, lockers slamming. Life intrudes like it always does. Until Ms. Pomeroy announces the partner reflection for homework.

Her name is next to Donnie’s.

They meet in the library after school, sitting across from each other with their poems laid out between them like offerings.

“This is stupid,” Donnie says, quieter now.

She smiles, small and nervous. “Yeah. But maybe… not completely.”

They read each other’s poems again, this time out loud, just to each other. Donnie stumbles over one of her lines.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “That line’s—uh—hard.”

She shrugs. “It’s okay. I wrote it that way.”

She reads his poem back to him, voice soft. “Sometimes one voice cuts through, and everything else goes quiet.”

Donnie looks at her like she has just named something he did not know had a word.

They talk; about how embarrassing poetry is, about how it feels like handing someone your ribs and hoping they don’t laugh. Donnie admits he almost did not turn his in. She admits she did the same.

Something shifts. Not fireworks. Not fate. Just recognition. Before they leave, she hesitates. “Do you want to… trade poems? Just for tonight. So we can write responses.”

Donnie blinks. Then nods. “Yeah. Okay. Yeah.”

At home, she reads his poem again, slower. She writes a response poem instead of an essay.

If you are static,

then I am the space between stations,

waiting for your signal to come through.

Donnie reads hers on his bed, ceiling fan humming. He writes back, ink pressed hard into the paper.

If you’re gravity,

then maybe I don’t need to escape.

Maybe falling is the point.

The next day, they present together. Standing side by side. Their shoulders almost touch. After class, outside the school, Donnie shoves his hands into his jacket pockets.

“So,” he says, staring at the pavement, “this might be stupid too, but—do you want to keep writing? Like. Together.”

Her smile is immediate. Bright. A little stunned. “Yeah,” she says. “I’d really like that.”

It meant knowing whose hand she was holding without having to look. It meant understanding that affection was not a single language here— it was a dialect, constantly shifting depending on who was fronting, who was tired, who was afraid.

And PDA?

Public displays of affection were… complicated.

Marc loves like a shield.

Marc Spector hated being seen. Not in the dramatic sense— he was not shy. He just understood visibility as risk. Crowds meant eyes. Eyes meant threats. And threats meant you.

So when Marc was fronting, his affection became subtle to the point of invisibility. He did not hold her hand in public. Not fully.

Instead, he walked close enough that their arms brushed. He guided her with pressure at her elbow, fingers barely touching but always there. When crossing streets, his hand would hover just behind her back—not touching, but ready.

She noticed the pattern long before he realized he had one.

At the grocery store, he positioned the cart between his lady and anyone who got too close. In cafés, he chose seats with a clear line of sight to exits. When strangers spoke to her too long, Marc’s body shifted—shoulders squared, jaw tight, presence unmistakable.

Once, the woman reached for his hand anyway. Just briefly. Just her pinky hooking into his. He stiffened like she had touched a bruise.

“Hey,” she murmured. “It’s okay.”

Marc glanced around, eyes scanning automatically, then down at your joined fingers.

“…Don’t,” he said quietly.

Her heart sank, but then he did not pull away.

Instead, he adjusted. Her hand disappeared beneath the edge of his jacket, pressed against his side, hidden from view. His arm came down around her, not possessive, not performative—protective, shielding.

Later, when she asked him about it, he exhaled slowly.

“I don’t like people knowin’ where to look,” he admitted. “If they see what matters to me…”

He trailed off. She finished it for him. “They know where to hurt you.”

Marc did not answer. He just leaned his forehead against hers, breath warm, grounding.

In public, Marc’s love was restraint.

In private, it was devotion.

Steven loves like a confession.

Steven Grant, on the other hand, adored being seen. Not in an attention seeking way… More like he couldn’t quite believe his luck.

Dating her felt unreal to him. Like something that might vanish if he did not keep touching it, acknowledging it, proving it existed.

So Steven held hands. Properly. Fingers laced, thumbs brushing, swinging your arms slightly when he was feeling particularly brave. He leaned into his girlfriend in lines. Pressed soft kisses to her temple without thinking.

Once, at the museum, he forgot himself entirely.

She was looking at a display; rambling excitedly, hands gesturing as she explained something he already knew but loved hearing from you anyway. And Steven just… stared.

Heart pounding. Chest warm. Overwhelmed by affection.

Before he could overthink it, he kissed her.

Right there. In public. In front of God, tourists, and at least one scandalized child.

He froze immediately afterward.

“Oh— oh my God, I’m so sorry, I should’ve asked, I just— are you alright? I mean—”

She laughed and kissed him again, softer this time. Steven’s ears went pink for the rest of the day.

After that, PDA with Steven became a stream of gentle, earnest affection. Hand squeezes when he was nervous. Arms looped around her waist while waiting for the bus. Whispered compliments pressed against her cheek because he forgot other people existed.

“You’re bloody brilliant, you know that?”

“I can’t believe you chose us.”

“You look— sorry, you just look very nice today.”

He said us, even when talking about himself.

Steven loved her like he was constantly confessing— every touch an admission, every kiss a quiet please stay.

Jake loves like a promise you do not get to refuse.

Jake Lockley did not believe in subtlety. If Marc hid and Steven glowed, Jake claimed.

The first time Jake fronted on a date, she knew immediately— not because of the accent, though that helped, but because his hand landed on her waist like it had always belonged there.

In public, Jake touched her constantly. Not indecently. Intentionally.

An arm slung around her shoulders. Fingers hooked into her belt loops. A hand at her lower back that never drifted, never hesitated. When people looked too long, Jake smiled slow and sharp and pulled his lover closer.

Possessive? Yes.

Uncomfortable? Never.

He read her body language perfectly. Every touch checked in without asking. Every kiss was deliberate— slow enough to make a point, brief enough to keep her wanting more.

Someone once flirted with him at a bar. Jake did not even respond. He just turned, cupped her jaw, and kissed his girlfriend like he was signing his name on her. When he pulled back, he murmured in Spanish, low and intimate, “Mine.”

Later, when she teased him about it, he smirked.

“PDA ain’t about them,” he said. “It’s about you knowin’. And you do.”

Jake loved like a promise. Not a sweet one. A binding one.

Loving the system meant navigating all of it—the restraint, the tenderness, the fire.

Some days, you walked between worlds.

Marc watching crowds.

Steven swinging your hands.

Jake pulling you close.

And somehow, it all worked. Because no matter who was fronting, no matter how different the affection looked; they all chose her. Every time.

Marc watches.

Steven feels.

Flowers died. Words got twisted. Promises were dangerous things, especially when you would lived long enough to see how easily they broke. He had learned early that love, if it was real, was not loud. It was persistent. It stayed.

She learned this about him slowly.

The first time she realized it, she was standing barefoot in the kitchen at two in the morning, wrapped in one of his flannels because she could not sleep. The house was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the wind rattling the windows. Children snug in their beds. Logan had come up behind her without a sound, setting a mug into her hands before she could even ask.

Tea. Exactly how she liked it. Honey, not sugar.

She had turned to look at him, startled. “How’d you know I was awake?”

Logan had shrugged, leaning against the counter. “Didn’t hear you breathing right.”

It was not romantic in the way movies tried to sell it. No candles. No declarations. Just the certainty that he noticed when something was off.

That was Logan’s devotion.

He showed it in the way he always positioned himself between her and the door in unfamiliar places. In the way his hand found the small of her back automatically in crowds, grounding and warm. In the way he listened, really listened, even when he didn not have the right words to offer back.

She used to tease him for not being the “romantic type.”

“You don’t ever bring me flowers,” she had said once, not accusing, just curious.

Logan had glanced at her, brow furrowing. “You want flowers?”

She laughed. “I’m just saying.”

The next morning, she woke up to a pot of herbs on the windowsill. Fresh soil, sturdy leaves, the faint scent of earth.

“They won’t die on you,” he’d muttered, arms crossed like he was bracing for critique. “Figured that was better.”

She had kissed him then, soft and surprised, realizing something important: Logan did not do things because they were expected. He did them because they made sense.

He learned her routines without ever asking. Knew which mug she preferred, which chair she always gravitated toward, how she took her coffee depending on the time of day. When she was sick, he hovered without hovering; placing water nearby, changing the sheets when she fell asleep, staying close enough that she could feel him without being smothered.

When nightmares woke her, it was Logan’s voice that anchored her back into the present. Low. Steady. Saying her name like it mattered.

And when things went wrong— because with Logan, they often did— his devotion sharpened into something fierce.

He did not always come home clean. Sometimes there was blood under his nails that did not belong to him. Bruises that faded faster than they should have. He never offered explanations unless she asked, and even then, he kept it brief. But every time he came back, he checked on her first.

“You okay? You hurt? They didn’t get near you, right?”

Once, after a particularly long absence, she snapped at him.

“You don’t get to just disappear and come back like nothing happened,” she had said, voice tight. “I worry.”

Logan had gone very still.

“I know,” he said quietly.

That scared her more than anger would have.

Later that night, as they lay tangled together, he spoke into the dark. “I stay away so they don’t come lookin’ for you.”

Her chest ached at the weight of it. “You don’t have to do that alone.”

He turned onto his side, forehead resting against hers. “I’m not. I got you.”

That was the thing about loving Logan Howlett. He didn’t promise safety. He promised effort. Protection. Presence. Devotion, for him, looked like choosing her again and again, even when it scared him.

Valentine’s Day came and went quietly most years.

She stopped expecting anything flashy after the first couple of times. No overpriced dinners. No teddy bears. Sometimes not even a card. But Logan always did something.

One year, he fixed the leaky roof she had been complaining about for months. Another year, he drove three hours just to replace a book she’d lost; same edition, same worn cover. Once, he surprised her with a weekend away, cabin tucked deep in the woods where no one could bother them.

This year felt no different on the surface.

Coming home, she found Logan in the garage, hands greasy, radio humming low. He looked up when he heard her footsteps.

“Hey,” he said. “You hungry?”

“Always,” she smiled.

Dinner was simple. Something hearty. Familiar. Afterward, they sat together on the couch, her feet in his lap, his thumb tracing idle circles over her ankle.

She glanced at the clock. “You know what day it is, right?”

Logan huffed softly. “Yeah. I know.”

“No pressure,” she added quickly. “I just—”

He stood abruptly, disappearing down the hall. She frowned, momentarily worried she had said something wrong, until he returned with a small, battered box in his hands. Set it on the table. Opened it.

Inside was a simple necklace. Nothing flashy. Just a thin chain with a small, unassuming pendant. Metal badger-like animal worn smooth by time.

“Found it years ago,” Logan said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Belonged to someone who mattered. Kept it safe. Thought… maybe it should be yours now.”

Her breath caught. “Logan…”

Meeting her gaze, he appeared serious and unguarded. “I ain’t good at sayin’ it. Never have been. But you’re my home. You’re the thing I come back to. Every time.”

She crossed the distance between them and kissed him, slow and deep, hands fisting into his shirt like she needed to anchor him there. When she pulled back, eyes shining, she whispered, “That’s all I’ve ever needed.”

Logan pressed his forehead to hers, voice rough with something dangerously close to vulnerability. “Good. ‘Cause that ain’t ever changin’.”

David sighed into his beer, the sound long-suffering but not annoyed. If anything, there was something fond in it. This was, unfortunately, a fairly common occurrence whenever David went out anywhere. It did not matter that his girlfriend was usually with him. Or that her zodiac sign was tattooed on his left ring finger, etched into his skin with more permanence than most people ever bothered with.

She was always watching women flirt with her boyfriend.

The waitress came back a moment later, all smiles and leaning a little too far forward, asking David if he needed anything else. David did not even look up at first, fingers idly spinning the condensation ring on his glass.

“No,” he said, flat and polite. Then, because he was David Loki and incapable of not being deliberate, he added, “We’re good. Thanks.”

We.

The waitress lingered half a second longer than necessary before retreating. His girlfriend huffed, arms crossing over her chest.

“I swear to God,” she muttered, “one day I’m going to start barking.”

David snorted despite himself. “You do that, I’m absolutely recording it.”

She shot him a look. “This isn’t funny.”

That made him look at her fully then. Really look. Her jaw was tight, eyes sharp, irritation sitting just beneath the surface. Not jealousy exactly, not the kind rooted in insecurity, but exhaustion. The kind that came from being constantly reminded that other people saw what was hers and felt entitled to acknowledge it.

David leaned back in his chair, studying her the way he studied crime scenes— careful, thorough, intent on understanding.

“You wanna tell me what this is really about?” he asked.

She hesitated, then exhaled sharply. “I’m just… tired, David. Everywhere we go, someone’s got something to say. A look. A comment. A linger. Like I’m invisible.”

His brow furrowed instantly. “You’re not invisible.”

“That’s not the point and you know it.”

She dropped her gaze to the table, fingers picking at the edge of her napkin. “I didn’t sign up to be dating the precinct heartthrob.”

David blinked. Then barked out a laugh. “The what?”

“Don’t play dumb,” she said. “You know what people say about you. You know how they look at you.”

He leaned forward now, forearms on the table, voice quieter. “I know how you look at me.”

“Yeah, well. I’m not the one blatantly flirting with you while your girlfriend’s sitting right there,” came her scoff.

David’s jaw tightened, something darker flashing behind his eyes. “Hey.”

She looked up at him then, caught by the edge in his tone.

“That’s not on me,” he said firmly. “And it sure as hell isn’t on you.”

There was a beat of silence between them, the low hum of the bar filling the space.

“You think I don’t notice?” he continued. “You think I don’t see it happen? Every time?”

Her shoulders slumped just a fraction. “Then why don’t you say something?”

“Because I don’t owe them anything,” David said. “And because I don’t want to make you uncomfortable by turning every night out into a confrontation.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it again.

David reached across the table then, fingers wrapping around her wrist, grounding. “Listen to me.”

Her eyes darted up to his hesitantly, but enjoyed the comfort of his hold.

“I don’t flirt back,” he said. “I don’t encourage it. I don’t even entertain it. Because I go home with you. I wake up with you. I chose you.”

Her throat bobbed.

“And that tattoo,” he added, lifting his left hand slightly so she could see it. “That wasn’t a joke. That wasn’t a whim. That was me saying, ‘This is my person,’ in a way that doesn’t wash off.”

Her expression softened, frustration giving way to something more vulnerable. “It just feels like I have to share you with the entire damn world.”

David smiled faintly. “You don’t.”

She raised an eyebrow. “No?”

“No,” he said. “Because they don’t get me. They get a look. A fantasy. You get the reality.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

He stood, tossing some cash onto the table. “Come on.”

“Where are we going?”

“Home,” David said, already pulling her up with him. “I need to remind you of something.”

The ride back was quiet, tension buzzing low but different now, charged instead of sharp. When they stepped into the apartment, David kicked the door shut behind them and backed her up against it gently, one hand braced beside her head.

She swallowed, “David.”

He leaned in, voice low, dangerous in that calm way of his. “Do you know how many people think they know me?”

She shook her head.

“Hundreds,” he said. “And not a single one of them knows how you sound when you laugh at stupid shit. Or how you steal the blankets. Or how you look at me like I’m something worth keeping.”

Her hands slid up his chest, fingers curling into his shirt. “You’re really laying it on thick.”

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Because you need to hear it.”

He kissed her then; slow, sure, unhurried. The kind of kiss that was not about proving anything to anyone else. Just about them. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against hers.

“You’re the one I want,” he said quietly. “You’re the one I go home to. Anyone else can look. That’s all they get.”

A small smile tugged at her lips. “So I don’t need to bark?”

He smirked. “Only if you want to.”

She laughed then, finally, tension breaking. David kissed her again, deeper this time, hands settling at her waist like he knew exactly where they belonged.

And if anyone else thought he was a heartthrob? That was their problem.