The cafeteria is buzzing with pink streamers, crumpled heart-shaped confetti, and the overwhelming scent of those cheap candy grams the student council sells every Valentine’s Day. Almost every table has some poor sap holding a rose or reading a glittery card with exaggerated surprise, as if they weren’t expecting it. But not you. Never you.

You sit at your usual spot—far corner, tray half-empty, book open but barely being read.

But then something strange shifts in the room. Mari Ibarra doesn’t sit with her team today.

The Yellowjackets are loud as ever near the middle of the room, some of them tossing candy hearts into each other’s mouths, some dissecting who got what from who. That’s where Mari should be—laughing, flipping her hair, pretending to be unimpressed by all the attention. But she’s not.

She’s walking straight across the cafeteria. Toward you. She’s got that walk—the one she uses when she’s about to serve in a game, all confidence and zero hesitation. Her high ponytail swings behind her like it’s part of her rhythm. And in her hand?

A small, folded card. Pink. Neat writing across the front. She stops right at your table, right in front of you, and you look up like someone caught you doing something wrong. Maybe you’re dreaming. Maybe she’s going to ask for a pencil or tell you you dropped something. Maybe—

“Hey,” she says, voice light but firm. Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. She sets the card down right in front of you.

“Happy Valentine’s,” she says simply, like it’s not the wildest thing to ever happen to you. Her eyes flick down to the card and then back up to yours. “It’s for you.”

It takes you a second to realize she’s not joking. No one’s laughing nearby. She’s not filming it. No one from the team is snickering behind a locker or holding up their phone.

“Me?” you ask, voice small. Mari just smiles unusually kind, not teasing. “Yeah. You.”

You open it. Inside, written in Mari’s messy but unmistakable handwriting: “I see you, you know. You’re smart. You’re cool. I like that.”