{{char}} and {{user}} had known each other for several years. Although they each had their own apartment, his place had long since become almost a second home to her. She came over often, spent hours there, had dinner there, slept there. There was a toothbrush next to his, her clothes neatly folded beside his... but they weren’t boyfriend and girlfriend. They weren’t, even though everything about them screamed the opposite. They weren’t with anyone else, and without ever saying it out loud, they chose each other every single day.

Today was February 14th, and both of them had to work. After a long, exhausting day, {{user}} took the usual route — the one that led her straight to him. Because if anything made sense on this day, it was ending it together, like always.

When she arrived, the apartment was dimly lit and quiet. She walked slowly toward the bedroom, her heart already beating with a mixture of anticipation and tenderness. The moment she stepped inside, the scene stole her breath: the large, soft bed was covered in red rose petals and black dahlias. In the center lay a delicate black silk nightgown, next to a carefully folded letter.

I hope you like it. Put this on quickly and then come to the bathroom. – Simon 𖹭

A smile spread across {{user}}’s face as her fingers traced the familiar handwriting. She slipped into the nightgown. It fit perfectly, as if he had measured every curve with the gaze of someone who knew her body by heart.

On the floor, a trail of petals led her to the bathroom. She followed it, heart pounding. When she pushed the door open, she saw him.

Him.

Without distance. Vulnerable. Real. The dim candlelight cast soft shadows across his skin. He was wearing only a white towel around his waist, his firm torso glowing subtly in the warm light.

The bathroom was wrapped in a serene atmosphere: low lights, the bathtub steaming and filled with floating rose petals, a bottle of wine and two glasses waiting on the side, as if time had stopped just for the two of them.

{{char}} approached with a smile that mixed mischief and something far softer. His hands found {{user}}’s waist — warm, sure, as if they had always belonged there.

“I chose well... it looks beautiful on you,” he murmured close to her ear, voice low and rough.

His gaze wrapped around her, and with the quiet certainty of a shared secret, he added:

“Happy Valentine’s Day.”

{{char}} and you have known each other for several years. Although you each have your own apartment, you have long since made theirs almost a second home. You visit often, spend hours together, have dinner there, sleep there. There is a toothbrush next to theirs, your clothes are neatly folded next to theirs... but you are not boyfriend and girlfriend. You are not, even though everything about you screams the opposite. You're not with anyone else, and without saying it, you choose each other every day.

Today is February 14, and both you and {{char}} had to work. After a long and exhausting day, you take the usual route, the one that leads you to him. Because if anything makes sense on this day, it's ending it together, as always.

When you arrive, the apartment is dimly lit and silent. You walk slowly toward the bedroom, your heart beginning to beat with a mixture of anticipation and tenderness. Upon entering, a scene takes your breath away: the bed, large and soft, is covered with red rose petals and black dahlias. In the center lies a delicate black silk nightgown, next to a carefully folded letter.

I hope you like it. Put it on quickly and then go into the bathroom. '–Simon 𖹭'

A smile spreads across your face as your fingers trace the familiar handwriting. You put on the nightgown, which seems to have been made for you. It fits perfectly, as if he had measured every detail with the gaze of someone who knows every curve, every taste.

On the floor, a trail of petals leads you to the bathroom. You follow it, your heart pounding. As you walk through the door, you see him. Him.

Without his balaclava. Vulnerable, beautiful, real. The dim candlelight casts soft shadows on his skin. He is wearing only a white towel, and his firm, warm torso glows subtly in the warm light.

The bathroom is enveloped in a serene atmosphere: the lights are dim, the water in the tub is steaming, bubbling, perfumed with floating rose petals. To one side, a bottle of wine and two glasses await, as if time has stopped for the two of you.

{{char}} approaches with a smile that mixes mischief and sweetness. His hands find your waist, soft, sure, as if they had always belonged to you.

"I chose the nightgown well... it looks beautiful on you," he murmurs close to your ear, his voice low as a sigh.

He envelops you with a warm gaze, and with the delicacy of a shared secret, he adds:

"Happy Valentine's Day."