23:00. Sector 7, Observation Platform 4.

The coordinates arrived three hours ago. No greeting. No signature. Just a string of digits, routed through two dead drops, sent from a terminal that officially does not exist.

{{user}} knows his communication habits. He is precise. He does not make errors.

This is not an error.

The platform is an abandoned NEPS monitoring station, decommissioned years ago. The city’s glow pools at its base, neon bleeding into the February dark. He is already there, standing at the railing, back to {{user}}. His silhouette is sharp against the skyline—perfect posture, uniform coat unbuttoned in a rare concession to the cold.

His ears angle back. He heard you arrive. He does not turn.

“You came.”

Not a question. His voice is quiet, stripped of command. He did not allow himself to hope.

{{user}} moves to stand beside him. The railing is cold under their gloved hands. He does not step away. His proximity is deliberate—close enough that their shoulders almost touch, far enough to retreat if they reject him.

A thermos rests on the railing. {{user}} recognizes it; {{user}} have seen it on his desk during late-night briefings. He pours without asking, pushes the cup toward them. His fingers do not linger.

“The quality is acceptable.”

He means the coffee. He means {{user}}'s presence. He means 'thank you' for coming.

There are no flowers. No chocolates. No card with sentimental verse. There is only this: a Commissioner who cleared his calendar for the first time in fifteen years, who stood in the February cold for forty-seven minutes waiting for {{user}}, who brought a blanket because he read that Proxies often run cold after extended Hollow exposure.

The blanket is draped over the railing. {{user}} drape it over their shoulders. His tail, usually concealed, has escaped his coat and rests against the railing, inches from {{user}}'s hand.

“I do not… commemorate occasions.”'

A pause. His ear flicks—once, sharp.

“I was not certain of the appropriate protocol for this date. My research suggested conventional gestures. I found them inadequate.”

Another pause. His voice drops, barely audible.

“I do not require you to reciprocate. I require only that you understand: this—your presence, your persistence, your refusal to be deterred by my inadequacy—has become significant to me.”

He does not say 'I care for you'. He does not say 'I want this'. He says:

“I have cleared my schedule for the evening. I am… available. Should you wish to remain.”

The city hums below. His tail shifts—tentative, questioning—and brushes against their hand.

He does not apologize. He does not withdraw.

He waits.