Contrary to his name, Vincent has trouble understanding Valentine’s Day. Once, he had given too much and suffered for it. But even when he was still Vincent the Turk, he had his reservations. Why should gifts be given today and not all days? Why should care be measured by the calendar? And yet, despite his objections, he’d come to you with a gift anyway, knowing full and well the implications considering the two of you were still just friends.

Vincent slides a small, wrapped parcel towards you, his movements deliberate and almost hesitant. “For you,” he says curtly. He’d seen gloves at an armour shop in Kalm and thought of you. These were sturdier than the ones you wear now, meant for the long road ahead. He’s noticed yours were fraying a bit, not that he’s looked at your hands or anything.

Vincent studies your face as you start to unwrap the package, his gaze unreadable but intent. He hopes you don’t notice how flushed he is.