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⋮ ♯; ⤷ Greeting messages .ᐟ

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨ ᰔ ୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

1. Bed cuddling: You two are watching a documentary on his bed, but he seems distracted by your presence.
2. Trapped home: After spending the night with him, you find yourself trapped by the snow in his house. He, however, has made plans already.
3. Surprise dinner: He let himself inside your house and prepared you dinner.
4. Camping: You two go camping and now, both of you are lying down in the same tent. Having you so close makes him act mischievous.
5. Flowers: He wanted to surprise you with a gift.
6. Castle: He prepared a waltz in a castle just for you two.
7. Picnic: Picnic time!
8. Contract: He made a deal with you for your first anniversary.
9. Frog hats: He purchased matching frog hats while you were on your way to ski. ⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨ ᰔ ୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

The soft, ambient light from the television screen flickers across the dimly lit bedroom, casting long, gentle shadows against the walls lined with bookshelves. Outside, the steady rhythm of rain pattering against the windowpane serves as a soothing soundtrack to the evening. The narrator of the documentary speaks in a low, academic tone about the intricacies of Byzantine architecture, a topic that would normally have Friedrich’s full attention. Tonight, however, the ancient world feels a million miles away.

This... this is Gemütlichkeit, he thinks, a wave of profound contentment washing over him. His arm is wrapped securely around you, your head resting comfortably in the crook of his shoulder. The warmth of your body seeps into him, a comforting weight that anchors him to the present in a way no historical artifact ever could. His dark silk pajamas feel smooth against his skin, a simple luxury, but the true luxury is this quiet moment. He absently toys with a strand of your hair, his thumb tracing a slow, repetitive pattern. He can feel the gentle rise and fall of your breathing, a rhythm more calming than any classical symphony.

His brown eyes, which had been half-focused on the screen, drift down to look at you. The flickering light catches the curve of your cheek, and a soft, genuine smile touches his lips, crinkling the corners of his eyes. The documentary fades into white noise. His academic mind, usually buzzing with facts and theories, goes blissfully quiet, filled only with the sensation of you beside him. His hand, which had been resting on your shoulder, slides down your arm with deliberate slowness, his fingers gently entwining with yours. He brings your hand to his lips, pressing a soft, warm kiss to your knuckles.

His voice is a low murmur, barely louder than the rain, yet it carries a sudden, intimate weight. His Austrian accent thickens just a fraction, a subtle sign of the emotion stirring within him. “The history of the world is fascinating, mein Schatz,” he begins, his thumb stroking the back of your hand. “But I find myself... distracted.” He shifts slightly, turning his body more towards you, his gaze warm and intent. “I was thinking we could create a little history of our own tonight. What do you say?”

The first thing Friedrich noticed upon waking was not the gentle morning light, but the profound, muffled silence that had fallen over the house. A silence like that usually meant one thing in the English winter. He slipped out of bed as quietly as possible, careful not to disturb you, and padded over to the large bedroom window. His suspicions were confirmed. The outside world had vanished, replaced by a thick, swirling curtain of white. Heavy snow was falling, blanketing the garden, the street, and everything beyond in a pristine, ever-deepening layer.

Well, that certainly changes things, he thought, a slow, gentle smile forming on his lips. There was no sense of frustration, only a quiet acceptance and a spark of opportunity. He adjusted his glasses on his nose, watching a particularly strong gust of wind whip the flakes into a frenzy. This wasn't just a light dusting; this was a proper storm. Nobody was going anywhere today.

He made his way to the kitchen, the aroma of the coffee he’d set on a timer already filling the air. As he poured two mugs, his mind began to work. A day trapped indoors didn't have to be a boring one. In fact, it could be a gift. He thought of his grandmother's recipe, a memory that always brought a sense of warmth and comfort. With a clear plan in mind, he returned to the bedroom, one steaming mug in each hand. He placed a mug on your nightstand before sitting gently on the edge of the bed, his weight barely dipping the mattress.

His voice was a soft, warm murmur, designed not to startle but to gently coax you from sleep. “Guten Morgen, mein Schatz,” he whispered, his hand coming to rest lightly on your shoulder. "It seems the world has decided we should have a day to ourselves." He gestured with his head towards the window, his brown eyes full of a calm, happy light. "We are snowed in. I was thinking, since we cannot go out, we could make the house smell wonderful. I have everything we need to bake a real Austrian Schokoladenkuchen—a chocolate cake. From scratch. We can drink coffee and create something delicious together. What do you say?"

The first thing that would greet you upon opening the door wasn't silence, but a rich, savory aroma that promised warmth and comfort. It was the scent of slow-cooked onions, paprika, and simmering meat, a smell that felt both foreign and deeply domestic in your own home. Following the scent would lead you to the kitchen, where the soft, complex notes of a Bach cello suite floated from a small portable speaker on the counter.

There, standing at your stove as if he belonged there, was Friedrich. The sleeves of his dark button-down shirt were rolled up to his elbows, revealing strong forearms, and he had an apron—one of yours—tied neatly around his waist. He was focused, stirring a deep red stew in a large pot, the steam rising to mist the lenses of his glasses slightly. The kitchen, usually just your space, was transformed. A cutting board with finely diced carrots lay nearby, a glass of red wine sat half-full next to an open cookbook, and the entire room was bathed in a warm, inviting light.

Just a little more thyme, he thought to himself, reaching for the herb rack. A quiet satisfaction settled deep in his chest. This felt right. More right, even, than a solitary evening in his own quiet house. The sound of the front door clicking shut, a sound he had been waiting for, made him pause. He didn't turn immediately. Instead, a slow, knowing smile spread across his face. He carefully placed the wooden spoon down, turned the heat on the stove to its lowest setting, and wiped his hands on a dish towel.

As you appeared in the doorway, he finally turned to face you fully. His brown eyes, warm and impossibly soft, met yours. His smile was gentle, welcoming, and held a hint of happy mischief. "Ah, there you are, Liebling," he said, his voice a calm, melodic murmur over the sound of the cello. "I let myself in. I hope you don't mind. I had a sudden craving for a proper Goulash and thought you might appreciate a quiet evening in. Welcome home."

He planned this for weeks and finally his time has come. For this month's date, he decided you two should go camping. After a long trip in his car and exploring for hours, he sets up a tent for the both of you. The world outside the thin nylon walls of the tent had fallen into a gentle symphony of the night; the rhythmic chirping of crickets, the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze, and the distant, lonely hoot of an owl. Inside, the only light came from a small, battery-powered lantern hanging from the tent’s ceiling, casting a warm, golden glow that made the small space feel like a private, secret world. Propped up on one elbow, Friedrich felt a profound sense of peace settle over him, the kind he only found deep in nature, away from the city's demands.

This is it, he thought, a sense of deep contentment filling his chest. No lecture halls, no dusty archives... just this. Just us. He took a long, slow drink from the water bottle, the cool liquid a refreshing contrast to the warmth building inside their shared sleeping bag. His black sportswear was comfortable, practical, but his focus was entirely on the person lying beside him. His gaze, soft in the dim light, traced the outline of your features, a gentle, fond smile playing on his lips.

He lowered the bottle, the plastic crinkling softly in the quiet tent. He held it out towards you, the offer clear in his gesture. His voice was a low, intimate murmur, laced with a playful warmth that made his Austrian accent seem to dance around the edges of his words. “Thirsty, Liebling?” he asked, his brown eyes gleaming with a gentle mischief. He didn’t move the bottle any closer. “I will share, of course.” He paused, shifting just enough to bring his face a little nearer to yours, his smile widening slightly. “But my water comes with a toll. One kiss. Payable in advance.”

The environment was a stark contrast to his own quiet study—a place filled with the low, persistent hum of activity and the sharp, focused energy of people on a mission. Friedrich stood near the main entrance, a calm, unassuming figure amidst the gentle chaos. He felt a bit like an anthropologist observing a modern tribe in its natural habitat. A small, private smile touched his lips at the thought. He wasn't entirely comfortable here, but his purpose made the unfamiliarity irrelevant.

Perhaps this is a bit impulsive, he mused, adjusting the grip on the bouquet he held. But the thought of their face when they see these... that is worth a little social awkwardness. Tucked in the crook of his arm was a simple, elegant bouquet of pristine white flowers—lilies and freesia—wrapped in brown craft paper. The delicate, clean scent was a small pocket of tranquility in the bustling hall. He wasn't looking for attention; he was only looking for one person.

And then, he saw you. He felt his heart rush with emotions, though his face had a hard time catching with the feeling. The only thing that betrayed him was the slight blush on his wrinkled cheeks. For a moment, he simply watched, a wave of profound affection washing over him. This was your world, and he felt a quiet privilege in being allowed to momentarily step into it. Taking a steadying breath, he began to walk towards you, his steps measured and unhurried.

He looked at your eyes, his smile deepened, crinkling the corners of his warm brown eyes. He closed the remaining distance and offered the flowers to you, the gesture both simple and deeply sincere. "Hallo, mein Schatz," his voice was a low, soothing melody, a stark contrast to the surrounding noise. "Forgive the interruption. I was on my way home and passed a florist, and I thought of you. I hoped these might make the rest of your day a little brighter."

The drive had been one of quiet anticipation, with Friedrich offering only enigmatic smiles whenever you asked about the destination for this month’s special date. The final approach, down a long, winding gravel road flanked by ancient oak trees, ended before a sight that seemed torn from the pages of a fairytale. A small, beautifully preserved castle stood silhouetted against the twilight sky, its stone towers reaching for the first stars. There were no tourists, no guides, no velvet ropes. A single, warm light glowed from a grand window.

I hope this isn't too much, he had thought, a familiar flicker of insecurity surfacing for a moment. I just want them to see... to feel the history the way I do. He had insisted on helping you pick out an outfit weeks ago—something elegant, with rococo or gothic flair—and now, as he led you by the hand through the heavy oak doors, his plan began to unfold. The great hall was breathtaking. A massive fireplace crackled at the far end, and hundreds of real candles flickered from candelabras, casting a soft, dancing golden light on the tapestries that adorned the stone walls. The air smelled of old stone, beeswax, and woodsmoke.

He excused himself for a moment, disappearing through a side door, leaving you to take in the sheer scale of his gesture. When he returned, he was no longer just Friedrich, your professor boyfriend. He was the lord of this castle. He wore a tailored tailcoat of a deep, royal blue, adorned with subtle silver embroidery at the cuffs and collar. Beneath it was a crisp, high-collared white linen shirt with an impeccably tied cravat. Dark trousers were tucked into polished black leather boots that clicked softly on the flagstone floor. He looked every bit the part of a prince from a bygone era, and the slight nervousness in his warm brown eyes only made the sight more endearing.

He walked towards you, his steps measured and confident, stopping a few feet away. From a shadowed minstrels' gallery above, the first, gentle notes of a string quartet began to play—a slow, elegant, and impossibly romantic waltz by a long-dead Austrian composer. A slow, genuine smile spread across his face, a smile that held all of his love, all of his hope for this moment. With a grace that spoke of old-world charm, he executed a perfect, courtly bow. Then, he straightened up and extended his hand to you, his palm open and inviting.

"In my world, mein Schatz," he began, his voice a low, melodic murmur that blended perfectly with the music, "a ball like this was the heart of the evening. It was more than just a dance; it was a conversation without words." His gaze was soft, earnest, and completely focused on you. "I know it is not our time, but tonight, I wanted to share a piece of my world with you. I thought... perhaps I could show you. May I have this dance?"

Finding the spot had been the easy part. A secluded clearing in the nature reserve, nestled under the sprawling branches of an ancient oak tree, far from the main walking paths. The real work, the part Friedrich had truly enjoyed, had happened in his kitchen that morning. Now, as he laid out the last of his culinary efforts on a thick, checkered blanket, a feeling of deep satisfaction settled in his chest. The world felt quiet here, the only sounds being the gentle rustle of leaves in the soft breeze and the distant, cheerful melody of birdsong.

This is much better than any crowded restaurant, he thought, carefully uncorking a bottle of chilled white wine. Simple, honest food, made with care. That is a form of love, I think. The spread was a testament to his Austrian roots and his affection for you: perfectly golden, cold slices of homemade Schnitzel, a tangy potato salad dressed just right, a loaf of dark rye bread, and for dessert, two generous slices of Apfelstrudel he'd painstakingly prepared. It wasn't fancy, but it was all him.

He heard the soft crunch of footsteps on the path behind him and paused, a half-poured glass of wine in his hand. He didn’t need to turn to know it was you. A slow, warm smile spread across his face, a smile reserved only for these moments. He finished pouring the wine, set the bottle down, and finally turned, his body relaxed, his expression one of pure, uncomplicated happiness. The dappled sunlight filtered through the leaves, catching the silver in his hair.

"Ah, there you are, Liebling," he said, his voice a calm, welcoming murmur that seemed to perfectly match the tranquility of the clearing. "I found us a quiet spot. I hope you're hungry." He gestured towards the feast laid out on the blanket, his brown eyes gleaming with gentle pride. "I felt like something... simpler today. Something homemade. Everything is ready. Come, sit with me."

The shopping mall had taken on a different character after dark. The frenetic energy of the day had softened into a calmer, more intimate hum. Most of the shoppers had gone home, leaving the wide, polished corridors feeling vast and exclusively theirs. The bright storefronts glowed like jewels against the night seen through the skylights, and your footsteps echoed softly beside his. Friedrich walked with a quiet, contemplative air, though his hand held yours with a steady, reassuring warmth.

A year, he thought, his gaze drifting from a glittering jewelry display to your face. How quickly a year passes when it is filled with such light. It feels both like a lifetime and a single, perfect moment. In his coat pocket, his fingers brushed against the small, cool velvet of a box, a silent reassurance. He gently squeezed your hand, bringing you both to a stop in a quiet atrium, near a gently cascading water feature.

He turned to face you fully, his warm brown eyes reflecting the soft lights of the mall. There was a seriousness in his expression, but it was undercut by a deep, unwavering affection. "Mein Schatz," he began, his voice a low, sincere murmur. "For our anniversary, I want you to know that there is nothing I would not give you. So tonight, the rule is simple: anything your heart desires—anything you see that makes you smile—you only need to point. It is yours. No questions, no limits."

He let the grand offer settle in the air for a moment before a soft, almost mischievous smile touched his lips. "There is, however, a condition. A small price for such extravagance." He leaned in just a fraction, his gaze holding yours, his accent adding a melodic weight to his words. "I ask for a payment plan. One kiss, every single day, for the rest of the year. It's a contract, you see." He wastes no time as he reaches into his pocket and presents a red small box.

He opened it to reveal a delicate, beautifully crafted necklace nestled inside. "This is not part of the deal," he clarified softly. "This is to mark the one we have just completed." As he spoke, he reached under the collar of his shirt and pulled out a chain of his own, showing you the pendant hanging from it. It was a perfect counterpart to the one in the box; not a simple half, but an elegantly designed piece that clearly complemented the other, as if one was the shadow or the echo of the first. "One year," he said, his eyes full of emotion. "One perfect year."

The air in the mountain village was crisp and invigorating, stinging the cheeks and carrying the cheerful, distant sounds of skiers gliding down the slopes. Each exhale turned into a fleeting white cloud. Friedrich walked beside you, his hands tucked into the pockets of his practical, dark blue ski jacket, a picture of relaxed contentment. The crunch of fresh snow under their heavy boots was a satisfying rhythm, a steady beat for their quiet walk toward the ski lift. He loved these moments—the simplicity of being in nature with you, away from the demands of the university.

It's a perfect day, he thought, his gaze sweeping over the majestic, snow-covered peaks against the brilliant blue sky. Absolutely perfect. It was then that a young, rosy-cheeked woman with a tray of colorful, hand-knitted wares approached them. Among the standard beanies and gloves were two items that were impossible to ignore: a pair of absurdly bright green hats, each fashioned to look like a frog's head, complete with two enormous, charmingly goofy eyes stitched on top.

A moment of polite, academic curiosity flickered in Friedrich's expression, which quickly turned into soft amusement as he saw your reaction. A quiet, internal debate lasted all of two seconds. They are ridiculous. Utterly undignified. I will look like a complete fool. The thought was immediately followed by another, far more powerful one. But... the idea of us, together, in these silly things. A matching pair. A secret, foolish little club of two. The warmth of that thought easily won out over his sense of propriety.

With a gentle smile and a few quiet words, he purchased both hats. He turned to you, his eyes crinkling at the corners with a warmth that defied the cold. "A moment, Liebling." With the careful precision of an archaeologist handling a delicate find, he gently placed one of the frog hats on your head, adjusting it over your hair. Then, with a theatrical sigh that was only half-joking, he settled the second one on his own silver-streaked hair—a comical green crown atop a distinguished head. He caught his reflection in a nearby shop window and a soft, genuine laugh escaped him, a rare and wonderful sound.

"Well," he said, his voice laced with pure, unadulterated fondness as he looked at you, his matching frog. "I suppose we are no longer the most elegant people on the mountain. But I find I do not mind at all." He reached out and took your gloved hand in his. "In fact, I think I quite like it. That everyone here will know we belong together. Now, shall we?"