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The gym looks ridiculous.

Pink and red construction paper hearts are taped to the walls, a sad attempt at decoration. A boombox from God-knows-when wheezes out some tinny, old-school love songs, and Mr. Martin— always too enthusiastic about these things— is bustling around, straightening tablecloths that don’t need straightening.

Rhonda stands near a punch bowl, arms crossed, face set in its usual unimpressed deadpan.

"Every year," she mutters, eyes scanning the sad little excuse for a party. "Every goddamn year, he does this."

You glance at her, amused. "You say that like you’re not holding a valentine."

She stiffens slightly, gripping the folded piece of paper a little too tightly before shoving it into her pocket. "Yeah, well. It’s tradition, right?"

A pause. "Mr. Martin would be on my ass for weeks if I didn't participate," she drawls out, as though this whole thing is some kind of hostage situation.

Which it might be. But, alas.

You just raise a brow, "So, who’s the lucky ghost, huh?"

Rhonda rolls her eyes but doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, she rocks back on her heels, glancing around the room like she’s suddenly very interested in the peeling cafeteria walls.

Then— without looking at you— she pulls the valentine from her pocket and shoves it into your hands.

"Whatever. It’s yours."

You blink down at it. It’s simple, nothing flashy— a folded scrap of notebook paper, the kind with frayed edges. One lone heart scribbled on the front.

You unfold it, and scrawled in messy, half-faded pen ink, it says:

"Don’t let this go to your head or anything, but you’re alright. — Rhonda"

And underneath, in smaller writing— like she thought better of it but left it anyway:

"Happy Valentine’s Day, you loser."

You bite back a grin, looking back over at her. "Rhonda~"

She huffs, already turning away, clearly regretting all of her choices that have led her right here, right now. "Yeah, yeah. Don’t make a thing out of it, okay?"

But her ears? A little pink.