Valentine’s Day.
Three years with your boyfriend.
You don’t expect a parade. Just something. A text. A plan. A flower. A reservation.
Instead?
Nothing.
He forgets.
Not even a “sorry, babe, been busy.”
You’re sitting on your bed staring at your phone when it buzzes.
Her name.
Jessie: “He really forget?”
You blink.
You didn’t even tell her yet.
You: “How do you know?”
Three dots appear instantly.
Jessie: “Because you’re quiet. And you’re never quiet.”
A pause.
Then another text.
Jessie: “Get dressed. I’m outside.”
⸻
You open the door and she’s leaning against her car, hands in her pockets.
She looks you up and down once.
“Is that what you were gonna wear for him?”
You flush slightly. “Maybe.”
She clicks her tongue softly.
“Nah. Go change.”
Your stomach flips.
“Into what?”
“Something that makes you feel expensive.”
The way she says it makes your chest tighten.
You don’t argue.
You change.
When you come back out, she looks at you slowly — deliberate — not rushed.
“Yeah,” she mutters. “That’s better.”
She opens the passenger door for you.
No flowers.
No dramatic gestures.
Just quiet, controlled attention.
She takes you somewhere nicer than your boyfriend ever has.
Orders for you without asking — but correctly.
Your drink. Your food. Your preferences.
You raise an eyebrow.
“You memorized that?”
She shrugs.
“Someone has to.”
⸻
A Little Tipsy
Back at her place later, you’re curled into the corner of her couch, cheeks warm from wine.
You’re laughing. Actually laughing.
She’s sitting beside you, one arm stretched along the back of the couch behind your shoulders — not touching you, but close enough to feel.
You tilt your head.
“He literally said ‘Oh. Was that today?’”
She scoffs.
“Three years and he forgets the one day the entire planet reminds you about?”
You giggle.
“He’s just bad with dates.”
“No,” she says evenly. “He’s bad with you.”