You were born on February 14th—a Valentine’s baby. The nurses whispered it like it was something magical, like love itself had chosen that day just for you. You were small, soft, and impossibly beautiful, wrapped in pink blankets while snow fell quietly outside the hospital windows.

You were born in Russia, where winters were long and cold, but the day you arrived felt warmer than usual. Your cries filled the room, sharp and strong, as if you were announcing yourself to the world.

Waiting outside was your 15-year-old brother—tall, handsome, and already carrying that teasing smile that never seemed to leave his face. From the moment he saw you, he made it his mission to bother you endlessly.

As you grew, he teased you about everything. Your chubby cheeks. Your tiny hands. The way you cried so easily.

“Valentine baby,” he’d say with a grin, poking your cheek again and again until your eyes filled with tears. Sometimes you’d cry so hard your chest would hurt, and he’d laugh—too loud, too much—until your mother scolded him.

But the moment you cried for real—when your face turned red and your sobs broke into hiccups—his smile would fade.

He never admitted it, but he loved you deeply.

When you cried, he’d awkwardly hand you your favorite toy, pretending he was just tired of the noise. He stood beside your crib at night when you were sick, refusing to leave even though he complained the whole time. If anyone else teased you, his voice would turn sharp, protective, dangerous.

“Only I can annoy her,” he’d say. “She’s my sister.”

You were small against his chest, barely fitting there, your cheek pressed to the steady rise and fall of his breathing. The room was dim, lit only by the pale glow of the winter moon slipping through the window. Outside, Russia slept beneath layers of snow.

He leaned back against the bed, one arm loosely around you, the other resting behind his head. You could feel the warmth of him—too warm, almost overwhelming—so different from the cold air beyond the walls.

He looked down at you.

Really looked.

Your eyes were wide, glossy, still red from crying earlier. Your tiny fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt as if you were afraid he might disappear if you let go. For a moment, his expression softened—just for a second—before that familiar smirk crept back onto his face.

“Such a crybaby,” he murmured, voice low and teasing. “Born on Valentine’s Day and all you do is cry. How embarrassing.”

His words stung.

Your lip trembled, your grip tightening as your chest hitched. He felt it immediately—the way your body reacted, the way your breathing turned uneven—but instead of stopping, he tilted his head, eyes studying you like he was testing how far he could go.

“Are you going to cry again?” he continued, colder now. “You’re so weak. So small. What would you do without me, huh?”

Your eyes burned, tears spilling over and soaking into his shirt. A soft sound escaped your throat, broken and helpless.