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Philippe did not announce Valentine’s Day plans. He simply handed you a small envelope that morning before heading to work.
Inside was a neatly written card.
You are not allowed to lift a finger today.
Klefki will accompany you this morning.
Use the enclosed.
Meet me for lunch at Café Gallant. Noon sharp.
— P.
You blinked. There was more inside—his credit card.
You looked up slowly. Philippe was adjusting his cuffs, already immaculate, already composed.
“You’re serious,” you said.
He met your gaze evenly. “Completely. I know you enjoy getting your nails done, so go ahead and get a manicure and pedicure.”
He reached into his pocket and withdrew a pokéball. Klefki materialized with a bright jingle, immediately hovering at your side like it had accepted its assignment.
“Are you sure?” you asked.
He stepped closer, brushing a knuckle lightly along your jaw.
“Today is for you,” he said quietly. “Get your nails done and meet me at Café Gallant for lunch.”
You raised a brow. “That’s awfully close to work.”
“Yes,” he replied calmly. “It’s convenient.”
There was the faintest hint of something else beneath it—territorial, perhaps—but it vanished as quickly as it appeared. He leaned down and kissed you—slow, deliberate, controlled. When he pulled back, his voice lowered just slightly.
You looked down at it, then at the card and credit card still in your hand.
“Well,” you said, arching a brow. “Ready to go cause financial damage?”
Klefki jingled approvingly, already floating toward the door.
You laughed, slipping the card safely into your bag.
“Alright. Let’s head to the nail salon!”
You settled into the plush salon chair, sliding your hands onto the small cushion as the nail technician laid out rows of color samples in front of you.
Klefki hovered at your shoulder, jingling softly as it leaned toward the display like it was taking this assignment very seriously.
“Hm,” you murmured, scanning the shades. “What do you think?”
Klefki tilted toward and stared a deep metallic slate.
You paused. “That’s a pretty color.”
The technician laughed. “Oh, that one’s beautiful. Very sleek.”
You hesitated, then smiled. “Actually…that might be perfect.”
As the technician began shaping your nails, she glanced up at you through the mirror.
“Special occasion?” she asked lightly.
You smiled back. “Valentine’s Day.”
“Oh!” she brightened. “Anyone special?”
“My boyfriend,” you replied, unable to hide the warmth in your voice. “He actually sent me here. Told me to get both my nails and toes done.”
The technician’s brows lifted approvingly. “Well. He’s a keeper, then!”
Klefki chimed proudly as if it had personally arranged everything.
The polish went on smooth and glossy, the metallic sheen catching the light beautifully.
“You know,” the technician said as she finished the second coat, “I’ll throw in a design on one nail for free. Valentine’s Day special. Got anything in mind?”
You glanced at Klefki, then back at her. “Well, he loves Steel-type Pokémon,” you said thoughtfully.
The technician’s eyes lit up. “Say no more.”
A few careful strokes later, she added a subtle design to your ring finger—a delicate silver accent that shimmered like brushed metal, edged with tiny, precise lines that caught the light just right. Not flashy. Just refined and strong.
You stared at it, smiling.
When everything was done and dried, you slipped on your shoes and stepped outside, Klefki floating at your side. You held your hands up in the daylight, admiring the sleek metallic shine and the subtle steel-inspired detail.
“Think he’ll like it?” you asked.
Klefki gave a confident jingle.
You checked the time on your phone. Noon was approaching.
“Alright,” you said, slipping the card safely back into your bag. “To Café Gallant.”
And with Klefki proudly escorting you, you headed toward lunch—curious to see exactly how Philippe planned to react.
By the time you reached the cafe, Philippe was already there. He stood near the window, coat immaculate, posture relaxed but alert in that unmistakable way of his. When he spotted you, something softened immediately, his gaze warming as it swept over you before settling on your face.
You stepped closer and held out his credit card.
“Here’s this,” you said lightly. “Thank you for the mani pedi.”
One corner of his mouth lifted as he took it from you. “I assume that everything was to your satisfaction.”
“Yes.”
You ordered, sat across from each other, and let the café settle around you—soft conversation, the clink of cutlery, the hum of a familiar place that felt oddly private with just the two of you there. As you talked, you lifted your hand casually, letting the light catch your nails.
Philippe noticed at once. He reached across the table, turning your hand gently so he could see better. His thumb brushed your knuckles—absent, affectionate.
“…Good choice,” he said, approval unmistakable. “Reminds me of Steelix and Skarmory”
You smiled, pleased. “I had help.”
Klefki chimed proudly from your side.
Lunch passed easily. He asked about the salon, about what you’d enjoyed most, listened with quiet attention that never felt interrogative—just present. When the bill came, he paid without comment. Then, instead of pocketing his card, he slid it back across the table to you.
“Buy something for tonight,” he said calmly. “I’ve made reservations.”
You blinked. “Oh? Is that why you sent me to get my nails done?”
He met your gaze, eyes warm, amused. “It’s Valentine’s Day,” he reminded you. “Details matter.”
You laughed softly.
He stood then, reaching for Klefki’s Poké Ball. “I’ll need Scizor with you this time.”
Klefki chimed in protest—but Philippe paused, lowering his voice. “Thank you,” he said sincerely, before recalling it.
With a smooth motion, he released Scizor from its Poké Ball. The red bug/steel-type pokemon landed solidly beside you, yellow eyes brightening when it saw you.
Philippe leaned down and kissed you—unhurried, grounding. “I’ll see you at home,” he said quietly. “Don’t worry about the price.”
Then he was gone, disappearing back into the flow of the city.
You looked down at Scizor, raising a brow. “Ready to accompany me, bud?”
Scizor gave a happy, sharp cry, blades clicking eagerly.
By the time Philippe returned home that evening, you were already there, outfit carefully hung in the bedroom. The dress was simple but elegant—soft fabric, clean lines, nothing flashy, but tailored in a way that felt unmistakably you. It caught the light just enough to be noticed, without ever asking for it.
He paused in the doorway when he saw you.
“Good,” he murmured. He set his keys aside and loosened his tie with practiced ease.
“Come upstairs.”
You followed, curious.
Once in the bedroom, he turned to you, gaze steady. “Undress.”
“…Excuse me?”
“For the massage,” he clarified calmly, as if you were the one being dramatic. “You’ll be more comfortable.”
“Oh…” Your pulse ticked just a little faster. You disappeared into the bathroom, slipping out of your clothes and wrapping a towel securely around yourself before stepping back into the bedroom.
The lights had been dimmed. Scented candles flickered softly on the dresser. Music played low and unobtrusive. The room felt warmer.
Philippe had removed his coat and tie. The first few buttons of his shirt were undone, sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms, veins faintly visible beneath the skin. He looked less formal now. Less of the Rust Syndicate’s second-in-command and more like the man who once asked you out for coffee.
He stepped closer, eyes taking you in without shame or haste.
“On the bed, please,” he said quietly.
You obeyed. The towel loosened as you settled onto your stomach, and his hands came to rest at your shoulders. He worked slowly at first—broad palms gliding over your back, testing for tension before applying pressure. Then deeper. Thumbs pressing in firm, deliberate strokes that made you inhale sharply. It hurt. But the kind of hurt that unraveled something.
“Breathe,” he instructed near your ear.
You did.
He adjusted, knowing exactly how far to push. Muscles yielded under his touch. Knots dissolved one by one.
“You hold stress here,” he murmured, fingers digging carefully along your spine. “Let me take care of you.”
The weight in your body began to melt. His hands moved lower, controlled and thorough, never careless. Each stroke purposeful. Each touch grounding.
By the time he finished, your limbs felt heavy in the most pleasant way. Loose. Boneless. Your thoughts drifted lazily, eyelids growing heavier with each slow breath.
Philippe noticed immediately. His hands slowed, then stilled against your back.
“You’re falling asleep,” he murmured, not teasing—just observing.
You made a faint, incoherent sound in response.
He exhaled softly through his nose—almost amused. Without waking you, he reached for the blanket at the foot of the bed and drew it carefully over your body, tucking it around you with deliberate gentleness. His palm rested briefly at your shoulder, grounding, steady.
Your eyes fluttered once. The last thing you felt was his thumb brushing lightly along your temple, smoothing back a strand of hair.
“Rest,” he said quietly.
And you did.
When you woke up, it was dark. You sat up abruptly.
“Oh no—!”
You rushed toward the kitchen, and stopped upon entering.
Philippe stood at the stove, sleeves rolled up, apron tied neatly. The scent in the air was rich, layered, unmistakably deliberate.
He glanced over his shoulder.
“You’re awake.”
“I’m so sorry!” you blurted. “We missed—”
“I know.”
He turned back to the pan, calm as ever.
“You were sleeping peacefully,” he continued. “I had no intention of waking you.”
Your heart squeezed.
“But the reservation—”
“Can be replaced.” He gestured toward the counter. Fresh ingredients. Market bags. Carefully prepped plates. “If you’ll recall, I’m a pretty decent cook.”
You stared.
He finally faced you fully. “Go freshen up,” he said simply. “Dinner should be about ready then.”
His gaze drifted—slowly, intentionally.
“And wear the outfit you bought. I want to see it on you.”
Dinner was flawless.
Three courses—balanced and deliberate. A starter light enough to awaken your appetite, carefully plated and thoughtfully seasoned. A main dish rich and indulgent without being overwhelming. Dessert subtle and elegant, sweet without excess.
Philippe watched you as you ate—not hungrily, not impatiently, but attentively. His gaze lingered on the way the dress flattered your figured, and when it moved when you shifted and how the candlelight caught the clean lines of it. On the careful makeup you’d chosen, simple and light, but intentional. On your hands when you reached for your glass of wine—the metallic sheen of your nails catching the light just enough to draw his eye.
“You’re quite the sight,” he said warmly.
He ate as well, but his attention always returned to you—pausing between bites, making sure your plate was never empty, that you seemed comfortable. Satisfied only when you were.
When the last plates were cleared and the candles burned low, he reached across the table and took your hand, thumb brushing gently over your knuckles. He held it there, steady and warm, like there was nowhere else he needed to be. His thumb traced a slow, absent line over your knuckles.
“Did you enjoy today?” he asked quietly.
You met his gaze and nodded. “I did.” Then, softer, “I just…still feel really bad about the reservation.”
His brow lifted, amused. “Do you?”
You hesitated. “Well—”
He tilted his head slightly. “Was my cooking insufficient?”
You froze. “No—! That’s not what I meant. It was perfect, I just—”
He chuckled then—low, warm, unmistakably pleased. The sound caught you off guard, and you laughed too, tension easing instantly.
“Good,” he said, squeezing your hand gently. “Then I have no complaints.”
He leaned closer, pressing a slow kiss to your knuckles before lifting his gaze back to you.
“Happy Valentine’s Day,” he said softly.
You smiled, warmth blooming in your chest, and leaned in to kiss him—unhurried, content, exactly where you wanted to be.
“Happy Valentine’s Day, Philippe.”