“Why should we feel like a crime?”

Leah had always been in love with you. It wasn’t the loud, dramatic kind, it was quieter, deeper, the kind that lived in the pauses between rehearsals and the glow of her phone at 2 a.m. But the less she saw you, the worse it got. Her schedule swallowed her whole: early call times, fittings, interviews, long nights memorizing lines until the words blurred together. And still, somehow, you stayed constant.

Even her friends, Dior with her sharp humor, Walker with his easy warmth.. knew. They’d never met you, not really, but they knew your name like it was a habit. Leah brought you up in every conversation without realizing it. You would love this song. You would laugh at that joke. On breaks, she’d sit cross-legged on cold studio floors, thumbs flying as she texted you, smiling to herself while the rest of the world rushed around her.

Valentine’s Day was just another workday. At least, that’s what she told herself. She was in her apartment, sunlight filtering through the windows, wearing something soft and familiar, phone propped up while she took pictures for her mom’s Instagram—flowers from a brand, a pastel backdrop, the kind of curated sweetness people expected from her.

So when there was a knock at the door, she barely reacted.

Until she opened it.

There you were.

Her favorite flowers,not the ones people assumed she liked, but the ones she’d mentioned once, offhand, months ago, were clutched in your hands. A stuffed bear tucked under your arm, a little lopsided, stupidly cute. Real. You were real.

For a second, Leah just stared. The world went quiet in that way it only ever did around you. Then she laughed, breathless, hand flying to her mouth as her eyes filled without permission.

“You’re supposed to be working,” she whispered, like saying it louder would make you disappear.

You smiled, soft and steady. “I wanted to see you.”

She melted into you the moment you stepped inside, arms tight around your waist, face pressed into your shoulder like she was afraid letting go would undo everything. Cameras, schedules, distance none of it mattered right then. You smelled like home.

Her mom laughed behind the phone as Leah wiped her eyes and insisted on taking pictures anyway, the bear squeezed between you, flowers bright against the room. But this time, the smile she wore wasn’t for Instagram.

It was for you.

And in that moment, Leah knew—love like this was never a crime. Even when it was quiet. Even when it was stolen in moments. Even when the world tried to make it feel impossible.