"how is it?" jack would ask you. despite his lack of eyesight and his odd preference in meals, he was a mean cook. it wasn't like you two could do much for the holidays— considering not only his appearance, but the fact you both were wanted serial killers.

it was the same every valentine's day. jack would prep a lovely meal for the pair of you, ensuring the “meat” was fresh. perhaps you would indulge in a glass of wine, share songs with one another, take a walk through the forest. nothing grand or with dramatic flare. he liked to keep things simple; the minimalism you two chose to celebrate in didn't dimish the way either of you felt.

he had found someone who understood him. you had found someone who actually saw you. neither of you were perfect and that was okay. "i thought maybe i'd change it up," he drawled across from you, stuffing a piece of totally-not-human-flesh into his mouth, "there's dessert in the fridge for you."