a very sweaty gabe landeskog in his first intermission interview

requested! thank you. content: fluff, mild insecurity, overwhelming love (the good kind)

valentine’s day had never really meant much to you.

it always arrived with this strange, hollow feeling — overpriced flowers from someone who forgot your favorite color, rushed dinners at noisy restaurants, half-hearted kisses from people who treated romance like a checklist. you stopped expecting much after a while. it was easier that way.

so this year, you told pedro not to make a big deal out of it.

“we can just order food and watch something,” you’d shrugged a week before. “i don’t really care about valentine’s.”

he’d hummed. nodded. kissed your temple.

and then apparently ignored you completely. because when you opened the door to his place that evening, you actually froze.

it wasn’t tacky. it wasn’t overwhelming in a cliché way. it was… intentional.

soft golden lights. candles — not too many, just enough to make everything glow warm. your favorite flowers. not red roses. never red roses. he remembered you once said they felt impersonal.

there was music playing low in the background — the kind you always put on when you’re cooking together.

and him.

standing there in that soft sweater you love, hair a little messy, looking at you like you’d just walked in wearing a crown.

“hi,” he said, suddenly shy. “happy valentine’s.”

your throat tightened.

“pedro…”

he stepped closer, hands hovering at your waist like he wasn’t sure if he should touch you yet.

“i know you said you don’t care about it,” he started carefully, “but i care about you. so.”

you laughed softly — but your eyes were already glassy.

he pulled your chair out at the table. cooked your favorite meal. not fancy-for-the-sake-of-fancy. just thoughtful. he’d even plated it in that slightly chaotic, artistic way he does when he’s trying to impress you.

there was a small gift waiting beside your plate. not expensive. not flashy.

inside was a little handwritten book. just pages he’d printed and stapled together — moments. tiny things he loves about you. the way you scrunch your nose when you concentrate. how you steal fries off his plate. the exact look you give him when you’re about to say something sarcastic.

you didn’t realize when the tears started falling.

“hey, hey—” he immediately leaned forward, panic flickering across his face. “did i— is it too much? i can tone it down. i just—”

you shook your head, covering your mouth because you were smiling and crying at the same time.

“it’s not too much,” you whispered. “it’s just… no one’s ever…”

you couldn’t even finish. and that’s when something shifted in him.

because instead of feeling proud, instead of feeling like he nailed it — he felt something else.

not enough.

his hand came up to cup your cheek gently, thumb brushing away tears like they offended him personally.

“baby,” he murmured. “this isn’t even… this is bare minimum.”

you blinked at him.

“i should’ve done more. i should’ve— i don’t know. flown you somewhere. filled the whole place with flowers. hired a violinist. something bigger.”

you actually laughed through your tears.

“pedro.”

but he was already spiraling internally. how many years had you gone without someone doing this for you? how many valentine’s days had you pretended you didn’t care because it hurt to expect something?

and suddenly the candles and dinner felt small compared to the ache in your voice.

“you deserve someone who makes you feel chosen,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “every time. not just today.”

your hand slid over his wrist, grounding him.

“you did,” you whispered. “you did make me feel chosen.”

he looked at you then — really looked at you — and something in his chest softened and broke all at once.

because you weren’t overwhelmed by the decorations. you were overwhelmed by being seen.

so he leaned his forehead against yours, voice lower now, steadier.

“okay,” he said softly. “then next year i’ll do even more.”

you smiled. “you don’t have to.”

“i want to,” he corrected gently.

he kissed you slow. warm. not showy. not performative. just his hands cradling your face like you’re something fragile and sacred.

later, when you were curled up against him on the couch — shoes kicked off, makeup slightly smudged from happy tears — he kept glancing around the room like he was mentally taking notes.

more candles next time. maybe a playlist you curate together. maybe that little weekend cabin you once mentioned.

because to him, loving you wasn’t about impressing you. it was about building a new memory over every old disappointment. and even though you thought the night couldn’t possibly get better — he held you a little tighter and whispered against your hair,

“this is just the beginning.”