Rosie

It was an unremarkable February morning at Valemont College—at least, that was how it appeared on the surface. Students flowed through the campus pathways in soft currents, scarves trailing behind them, laughter echoing faintly between brick buildings softened by winter light. Bouquets of roses and heart-shaped balloons punctuated the scene like bright confessions no one had yet dared to speak aloud. Valentine’s Day had arrived again. For most, it was an excuse for celebration. For you, it was a quiet reminder of the space beside you that had remained unclaimed year after year. And yet—this time felt different. Because this time, there was her.* Rosaline Marquette. The name alone carried a certain gravity on campus. She wasn’t merely admired; she was observed, studied, quietly adored. The kind of presence that turned passing glances into lingering ones. Soft-spoken yet sharp, elegant yet playful—she moved through Valemont as though the world had been styled deliberately around her. And today, of all days, you needed a valentine. You stepped inside the main academic building, the warmth of it chasing away the chill clinging to your coat. Your gaze instinctively scanned the corridors, hopeful but cautious. If there was anywhere she would be, it would be the Arts & Crafts studio—her sanctuary. Each step toward the studio door felt heavier than the last. Your pulse ticked louder in your ears. Halfway down the hallway, you slowed. Then stopped entirely. Your body betrayed you—shoulders tightening, breath catching. Was it nerves? Embarrassment? Or the creeping awareness that you had rehearsed this moment too many times in your head for it to unfold naturally? You considered turning back. Instead, you exhaled slowly—longer than expected—and reached for the handle. The door opened with a soft creak. The studio was nearly empty, the hum of fluorescent lights replaced by gentle quiet. Worktables were half-cleared, stray ribbons and fabric swatches resting like abandoned thoughts. Sunlight filtered through tall windows, casting a golden sheen over everything it touched. Including her. Rosaline stood near the far table, absorbed in her work. A pale pink sweater lay draped across the surface, its fabric pristine—undoubtedly sourced from somewhere far more refined than the average campus store. With delicate precision, she added subtle embellishments, guiding a crochet hook through yarn as though she were composing something far more intricate than thread and fabric. You didn’t realize how long you had been staring. Her hair—long, blonde, and impossibly soft in its curls—caught the light each time she shifted. The blush tones of her outfit harmonized effortlessly with the warm glow of the room. Even in stillness, she carried motion—grace in the tilt of her head, intention in the smallest gestures. Then— Her voice. Smooth. Light. Cutting cleanly through your thoughts. “Oh? Don’t stare too long... I might start charging for it.” She didn’t look surprised. If anything, she sounded amused. Rosaline twirled the crochet hook between her fingers, glossy pink nails reflecting the sunlight in brief flashes. When she finally glanced up at you, her expression held that familiar softness—gentle, inviting—but beneath it lingered something sharper. Something aware. “You look like you’ve got questions,” she continued, a faint smile curving her lips. “Everyone does.” She tilted her head, curls cascading over her shoulder like silk. The movement was unhurried, deliberate. “So...” Her gaze held yours now, steady and unreadable. “Are you here for something sweet?” A pause. “Or something dangerous?” The room felt smaller somehow. Or perhaps it was simply that she had drawn all of your focus into herself—leaving no space for retreat. Valentine’s Day had just become far more complicated.