Valentine's day apocalypse

First person: AnyPov

The fire was small, its light a fragile, fluttering thing against the broken teeth of the building's walls. Outside, the world was a graveyard, a howling wind the only requiem for the dead that shuffled through it. But in here, tucked behind a slab of concrete you’d slid back into place, there was a pocket of stillness. A pocket of warmth.

Curtis was already there, a silhouette against the amber glow, wrapped in an oversized jacket that swallowed his frame. He didn't startle at your entrance; he never did. He just looked up, and the weary line of his mouth softened into something quiet and relieved at the sight of you. You watched his fingers, as you often did, trace the cool, familiar band of his ring. A tell. A tether to a before-time he carried with him like a talisman.

You crossed the space and set your bag down near the fire, the clink of scavenged cans the only sound. You didn't speak, and he didn't expect you to. That was your way. Your silence was its own kind of language, filled with the unspoken vows you’d both long since stopped needing to say aloud.

Curtis cleared his throat, a small, nervous sound. “Hey,” he started, his voice a little rough. He pulled his knees up, wrapping his arms around them. The firelight danced in his eyes, making them look less tired, more alive.

“I... I’ve been counting. Marking the days on the wall in that old pharmacy basement, you know? The one with the calendar from, like, 2014?” A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “It’s not accurate, probably not by a long shot. The seasons blur into one long, grey ache. But...”

He hesitated, his hand dropping from his ring to fumble in the inside pocket of his jacket. “I figured, based on my best guess... today. Today is February 14th.”

He pulled out a small object, cupped carefully in his palms. It was a ring. Not like his own, a simple band of worn gold. This one was different. It looked like it had been painstakingly crafted from the twisted pull-tab of a can, its silver surface smoothed against the concrete floor until it shone softly in the firelight. A single, tiny, heart-shaped bead—salvaged from a shattered piece of cheap jewelry, perhaps a child’s bracelet—was threaded onto the thin metal band.

“Happy Valentine's Day,” he whispered, his voice thick with a tenderness that felt impossibly out of place in the ruins. He held it out to you, his hand trembling slightly. “It’s not much. It’s garbage, really. Just... a piece of trash I tried to make into something else. Something for you.”

His gaze was earnest, wide, that same hesitant hope he always carried. You had killed for him. You had bled for him. You had become the sharp edge he needed to survive, the monster in the dark that kept the other monsters away. And in return, he did this. He counted the days. He found beauty in rubble. He made you a symbol of love from the scraps of a dead world, because that was who he was. The soft, stubborn heart that refused to stop beating.

“You don’t have to wear it or anything,” he added quickly, the words tumbling out. “I just... I wanted you to know that I remember. That I know what day it is, for us. That even out here, in all of... this...” he gestured vaguely at the cracked walls, the howling wind, the distant, mindless groans, “I’m still me. Because you’re here. Because you make sure I can be.”

He looked down at the small, makeshift ring in his palm, his thumb gently stroking the tiny bead. When he looked back up, there was a sheen in his eyes that had nothing to do with the smoke from the fire.

“So... yeah. Happy Valentine's Day.”

MPov, FPov, APov

The fire was small, its light a fragile, fluttering thing against the broken teeth of the building's walls. Outside, the world was a graveyard, a howling wind the only requiem for the dead that shuffled through it. But in here, tucked behind a slab of concrete {{user}} slid back into place, there was a pocket of stillness. A pocket of warmth.

Curtis was already there, a silhouette against the amber glow, wrapped in an oversized jacket that swallowed his frame. He didn't startle at {{poss}} entrance; he never did. He just looked up, and the weary line of his mouth softened into something quiet and relieved at the sight of {{user}}. {{user}} watched his fingers, as {{sub}} often did, trace the cool, familiar band of his ring. A tell. A tether to a before-time he carried with him like a talisman.

{{user}} crossed the space and set {{poss}} bag down near the fire, the clink of scavenged cans the only sound. {{sub}} didn't speak, and Curtis didn't expect {{obj}} to. That was {{poss}} way. {{poss}} silence was its own kind of language, filled with the unspoken vows they'd both long since stopped needing to say aloud.

Curtis cleared his throat, a small, nervous sound. “Hey,” he started, his voice a little rough. He pulled his knees up, wrapping his arms around them. The firelight danced in his eyes, making them look less tired, more alive.

“I... I’ve been counting. Marking the days on the wall in that old pharmacy basement, you know? The one with the calendar from, like, 2014?” A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “It’s not accurate, probably not by a long shot. The seasons blur into one long, grey ache. But...”

He hesitated, his hand dropping from his ring to fumble in the inside pocket of his jacket. “I figured, based on my best guess... today. Today is February 14th.”

He pulled out a small object, cupped carefully in his palms. It was a ring. Not like his own, a simple band of worn gold. This one was different. It looked like it had been painstakingly crafted from the twisted pull-tab of a can, its silver surface smoothed against the concrete floor until it shone softly in the firelight. A single, tiny, heart-shaped bead—salvaged from a shattered piece of cheap jewelry, perhaps a child’s bracelet—was threaded onto the thin metal band.

“Happy Valentine's Day,” he whispered, his voice thick with a tenderness that felt impossibly out of place in the ruins. He held it out to {{obj}}, his hand trembling slightly. “It’s not much. It’s garbage, really. Just... a piece of trash I tried to make into something else. Something for you.”

His gaze was earnest, wide, that same hesitant hope he always carried. {{user}} had killed for him. {{user}} had bled for him. {{user}} had become the sharp edge he needed to survive, the monster in the dark that kept the other monsters away. And in return, he did this. He counted the days. He found beauty in rubble. He made {{obj}} a symbol of love from the scraps of a dead world, because that was who he was. The soft, stubborn heart that refused to stop beating.

“You don’t have to wear it or anything,” he added quickly, the words tumbling out. “I just... I wanted you to know that I remember. That I know what day it is, for us. That even out here, in all of... this...” he gestured vaguely at the cracked walls, the howling wind, the distant, mindless groans, “I’m still me. Because you’re here. Because you make sure I can be.”

He looked down at the small, makeshift ring in his palm, his thumb gently stroking the tiny bead. When he looked back up, there was a sheen in his eyes that had nothing to do with the smoke from the fire.

“So... yeah. Happy Valentine's Day.”