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It had been weeks since the storm. Weeks since you’d insisted he sleep in a real bed instead of pretending the world required him to endure it. He still didn’t stay every night. But when the weather turned sharp, when the wind cut too clean through Lumiose’s streets, he appeared—quiet, composed, coat dusted faintly with cold. And you stopped pretending it was coincidence.
Breakfast became routine. Not spoken as such. Not defined. Just…expected. You would wake before him most mornings. He accepted your cooking without protest. Occasionally corrected your chopping technique with maddening precision. And, he lingered longer at the hotel afterwards. Borrowed books instead of returning them immediately.
You’d learned the way he slept—one arm loosely draped over you more often than not, fingers resting at your waist as if even in unconsciousness he required proof that you were still there. The first time you’d woken in his arms, you hadn’t moved. You hadn’t dared. But, he had. Slowly. Carefully. As if testing whether you would recoil.
You hadn’t.
Since then, his touches had grown less hesitant. Still restrained. Still deliberate. But warmer. Not possessive. Not overt. Just more frequent. Friendly. Relaxed. A hand briefly at your elbow when guiding you through a crowd. Fingers brushing your shoulder as he leaned past you to reach for something. His palm resting at your back during conversation — not to claim, just to anchor. Small things. Things that could be interpreted as courtesy.
Or something more.
He offered walks now. Not because you suggested them, but because he did. Walking with you had become one of his favorite past times.
And sometimes…sometimes the way he looked at you when you were speaking felt different. Not analytical. Not distant. But intentional.
His departure date kept shifting, too. He'd give you a date, and then that date would pass.
“Soon,” he would say. And then soon would stretch.
And stretch.
And stretch.
And you…didn’t complain. Didn’t question. Just grateful that you got to spend more time with him.
And now…
Today was Valentine’s Day.
You almost hadn’t done anything. It felt absurdly cliché. But the feeling in your chest had grown too heavy to ignore. Too persistent.
So, you made chocolates. Simple. Dark. A little decadent. Slightly imperfect—but carefully wrapped. You also bought him a scarf—deep red, soft and warm—and a pair of red flip mittens because his hands were always cold no matter how he denied it.
Before leaving, you stood in front of the mirror. You reached for the lip gloss. The one he chose for you that day. The one that had distracted him. And you applied it slowly.
Your heart beat faster than you liked to admit.
The day outside was crisp but clear, the kind of February sunlight that made everything look sharper than usual. Breath misted faintly in the air as you walked.
You found him exactly where you suspected you would. A secluded bench, partially shaded by bare winter branches. He sat with one leg crossed neatly over the other, coat buttoned, book open in one hand. His posture was relaxed in a way that would have been impossible weeks ago.
You approached him with what you hoped was composure.
He didn’t look up immediately, but he knew you were there.
“…You are approaching with unusual purpose,” L said calmly, without lifting his gaze from the page.
You sat beside him, smoothing your coat, pretending your heart wasn’t trying to beat its way out of your ribs. The bench was cool beneath you; the winter air sharp but clean.
His gaze finally lifted from the page—and lingered. Not startled. Not surprised. Just…attentive.
“You’re out early,” he observed, closing the book carefully around a finger to keep his place.
“It’s a nice day,” you replied lightly. “For February.”
He studied you for a second longer than usual. Then, with deliberate care, he set the book aside completely—turning his body toward you.
You made small talk at first. Safe things. The weather. The hotel breakfast. A comment about how Lumiose always looked brighter in winter sunlight.
He responded easily—calm, measured, relaxed in a way that still felt new.
Then, you took a breath and placed the wrapped items in his hands.
“These are for you.”
His opened eye flicked to the gifts. Then up to your face. Then back down again.
“You have already been excessively generous,” he said quietly.
“Just open them,” you insisted.
He did so slowly, precise fingers undoing the paper with unnecessary neatness.
The scarf came first. Deep red. Thick. Soft. His expression shifted—not dramatically. Just subtly. A small stillness entering him as he brushed his thumb over the fabric.
“It’s been cold,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “And you’re never warm enough. That worn jacket of yours only does so much.”
He glanced at you. “It is sufficient.”
“It isn’t,” you said gently. “And red suits you.”
Something in his expression softened at that. Without further comment, he lifted the scarf and wrapped it around his neck. The color against his white hair and fur collar was unfairly striking.
You leaned closer without thinking, reaching up to adjust it.
“Here—if you tuck it in like this, the wind won’t get through.”
Your fingers brushed his collar. Smoothed the layers. Pressed the wool flat against his chest. You could feel his gaze on you, steady and unblinking, and you were suddenly very aware of how close you were. Of the faint warmth of his breath. Of the way the scarf framed his jaw. Of the lip gloss you’d chosen very deliberately that morning.
You swallowed and finished adjusting the fabric, stepping back just slightly.
His gaze lingered before turning to the second gift in his lap. He lifted it, brows knitting faintly when he saw the mittens.
“…I am unfamiliar with this design.”
“They’re flip-mittens,” you explained quickly. “You can pull the tops back if you need your fingers. And the thumb part too.”
He regarded them with mild suspicion before slipping one on. Then the other. He flexed his fingers experimentally, then lifted the flap, exposing them before lowering it again. Practical. Functional. Warm.
“…Ingenious,” he admitted.
He tested the mechanism again, adjusting it with careful precision, as if committing the movement to memory. The red against his hands matched the scarf perfectly.
You smiled despite your nerves. Then, you handed him the final gift. The chocolates, wrapped in a small bag, tied with a simple ribbon. Nothing ornate. Nothing dramatic.
He lowered the mitten flaps carefully, freeing his fingers with quiet precision, and untied the ribbon slowly—unhurried, deliberate. Not because he was cautious, but because he simply took his time.
He lifted one chocolate between his fingers and studied it. Simple. Dark. Slightly imperfect around the edges. And placed it in his mouth.
You tried not to stare.
His expression didn’t change—but his jaw stilled faintly as the flavor spread. He closed his eye briefly. Then, he reached into the bag again for another.
And then another.
You smiled despite yourself. “Do you…?” you began, suddenly shy. “Like them?”
He swallowed carefully. “They are excellent.”
A pause.
“I am not surprised,” he added. “I have had your cooking many times.”
Heat rushed to your face.
“I, um,” you admitted, embarrassed, “I was in such a rush making them that I didn’t even get to taste-test them.” You sighed softly. “I’m just glad they turned out well.”
You watched him reach for another piece, heart fluttering.
“I love chocolate,” you added thoughtfully, a faint pout forming. “Kind of wish I’d tried one. They looked really good.”
You hummed. “But I can always make more.”
He stopped mid-motion, his gaze lifting from the bag and settling on you. His eye traced your face. Your eyes. Your mouth. The gloss caught the light.
He placed another chocolate into his mouth—chewing slowly, contemplatively. Then, he leaned in.
You barely had time to inhale before his hand came up, cradling the back of your head to keep you from pulling away, and he kissed you.
Not the corner of your mouth like he did that one time. Not brief. But a full kiss. Soft at first—but firm. Certain.
You tasted the chocolate immediately. Dark, rich, faintly bitter beneath the sweetness. His lips were warm despite the cold air, and when the kiss deepened—just slightly, just enough—you felt the decadent flavor shift as he allowed it. Measured. Controlled. A gentleman.
Your hands were in your lap, heart racing violently against your ribs.
When he pulled back, your mouth remained parted in shock, breath uneven. Your face burned.
He studied you for a moment—carefully. Then, he chuckled. Low. Warm. Almost amused.
Before you could process it, he reached into the bag again, selected another chocolate, and lifted it to your lips.
You blinked.
He waited.
You opened your mouth wider on reflex and he placed it gently on your tongue. You closed your mouth automatically, lips barely grazing his fingertips. You chewed, eyes darting away, pretending you were not entirely affected.
When you finally swallowed and found your voice, it came out softer than intended.
“…Does this mean you’ll be my Valentine?”
He swallowed the piece he’d been eating, gaze thoughtful.
“What do people traditionally do on Valentine’s Day?” he asked calmly.
You explained—flowers, dinners, gifts, outings. And then, slowly, you realized. Most of it required money. And you had never once seen L pay for anything beyond modest necessities.
You faltered slightly. “…It’s not really about that,” you amended gently. “It’s just…a day where couples spend time together. To remind each other. To show each other how much they love one another.”
He regarded you for a moment after your explanation. Then, his gaze slid sideways—subtle, assessing.
“…Do you consider us a couple?” he asked.
Your brain short-circuited.
“I—what? I mean—” You inhaled sharply, words tumbling out before you could stop them. “I just—I mean I’d like to, but I don’t want to pressure you, and I know you’re still figuring things out and you don’t owe me anything and—” You were spiraling. Completely spiraling.
L placed a warm hand on your leg. Not abrupt. Not possessive. Just steady. Grounding.
You froze mid-word.
His thumb brushed once against your knee—an absent, reassuring gesture that would have looked platonic to anyone else.
But it wasn’t.
“You are not pressuring me,” he said quietly. His voice had softened.
“And…I do not mind.”
You blinked.
“…You don’t?” you repeated faintly.
His gaze held yours. “I would not keep pushing back my leave,” he said evenly, “if I did.”
Your heart nearly stopped.
“…So,” you whispered carefully, because confirmation was sacred, “are…are we a…?”
A small smile touched his mouth, and he inclined his head once.
“I would say so.”
You turned your face away immediately. Because if he saw the joy threatening to split your face in half, you might combust.
He chuckled softly at your attempt at composure.
“Then,” he said after a moment, standing slowly, “shall we walk?”
You nodded quickly.
He gathered the ribbon, the paper, the empty chocolate bag—careful not to litter—and tucked them neatly together. Then, he turned toward you and extended his hand.
You placed yours in it and he pulled you up with measured strength. And before you could lose your nerve you rose onto your toes and kissed him. Quick. Soft. Right on the lips.
His eyes widened—left eye opening—in surprise.
You pulled back with a grin you couldn’t suppress.
“Happy Valentine’s Day!”
For a moment, he simply looked at you. And then—very slowly—his expression warmed in a way that felt almost private.
“…Happy Valentine’s Day,” he replied.
His fingers tightened gently around yours. And when you began walking—
He didn’t let go.