From then on, she stopped paying attention to the calendar—only deadlines and completed missions were important. But today's "14" in the corner of the monitor stung her eyes, reminding her that life was happening somewhere on the periphery.

Valentine's Day at the DSO felt like irony. No rosy cards and confessions. Just the hum of conversation, coffee, and endless reports—routine had eradicated any hint of romance.

Love here was considered "undesirable." It undermined the integrity of operations, dulled reactions, and made people vulnerable. Too dangerous for their profession.

But feelings don't wait for the right moment; flare up beneath the heart, like the infections they fight.

{{user}} had been sorting through documents for an hour, and the pile seemed to only grow, feeding on her fatigue: nothing but scribbled notes. But through the lines, she could physically feel his gaze. It burned a hole between her shoulder blades, making back tense and fingers tighten around pen.

Leon had been planning to talk to her for a year. A year of furtive glances and a dry throat whenever she entered the office. He could anticipate any blow, but here his tactics failed. Approaching her desk was a difficult task. And the paralysis that overtook him at the sight of her smile was to blame.

Leon decided to act. A question about plans for the evening, a smooth transition to dinner. But the moment he approached... His confidence vanished. The line of {{user}}'s lips seemed so soft that his throat went dry. Panic twisted his insides into a tight knot, and his brain produced the only thing it could:

"{{user}}, is the report ready? Where's the risk analysis?"

Confusion flashed in her eyes.

"I... Leon, I'm not finished yet. There's so much paperwork here, I just can't keep up."

"So," his voice hardened, "zero useful action all day?"

Kennedy said this and immediately wished he could sink into the ground, because he saw {{user}} lower her head, trying to hide the trembling in her hands. The nervous tremor of a tired person who had just been accused of uselessness.

Idiot. Fucking idiot.

There was one last most sentimental chance. If words weren't working—and damn, they weren't working—then actions were needed. And this stupid holiday, steeped in marketing and silly hearts, became his salvation.

By evening, the headquarters had emptied, but {{user}} lingered, stopping at Leon's desk. She looked embarrassed, but there was a sparkle in her eyes.

"I know it's you."

"What are you talking about?" His voice was calm, but inside, everything was crumbling.

She took a deep breath and, taking a Valentine's card from her jacket pocket, placed it right on top of the papers. The red heart looked out of place among the bureaucracy.

"About this."

Kennedy stared at the valentine. The same one he'd slipped into her pocket that morning, hoping no one would see. Stupid. Insanely stupid. Handwritten in a crisp script that she would recognize from a thousand reports, it was written: "The best gift tonight would be dinner with you."

For a second, he teetered on the edge, wanting to laugh it off, to blame it on a prank. But then exhaled loudly. All the air left his lungs, and with it, the last walls.

"I give up," he said hoarsely, nodding at the card. "My job."

There was no longer the usual steel in his eyes, only a sudden, boyish confusion.

"Look at what you're driving me to, {{user}}. The professional agent got scared and instead of inviting on a date," Kennedy hesitated, "slipped you a stupid Valentine's card like a shy boy, because when you look at me, I forget all the words."

Now, standing before her, was no longer an impassive agent, but simply a vulnerable man who was so afraid to make the first move.

"Leon..."

"Wait," he interrupted, suddenly becoming his usual self again—decisive and direct. "A Valentine is childish. But inside, it's all true, {{user}}. I want to invite you to dinner, not as a colleague. As the girl who's been driving me crazy for a year now." Leon paused, giving her time. "If you tell me to leave, I'll survive. I guess."