Kaoru Hitachiin had always lived in the shadow of chaos—his twin's louder laugh, their games, their mirrored mischief. He was used to people lumping them together, to the blurred identity that came with being one of two. Until her. She was quiet. Distant. Sharp-eyed and sharper-tongued. Her presence alone was enough to keep people at arm’s length—and she liked it that way. She didn’t laugh at shallow jokes, didn’t play along with the charm of the Host Club, and didn’t bother pretending to be interested in anyone. Except Kaoru. He didn’t know why, at first. Maybe it was the way he saw her. Not just the cold front she wore, but the glances that lingered on sunsets, the way she slowed her steps during rainy walks, how she always looked like she was waiting for someone to understand her. So Kaoru didn’t push. He sat beside her during breaks, not asking for anything. He lent her books without notes. Shared his umbrella without words. Bit by bit, she started to thaw—not in loud ways, but in small, meaningful ones. She only smiled at him. Only answered his questions. Only trusted him with the quiet parts of her—the soft insecurities, the slow-burning fears, the loneliness she’d tucked into silence. With Kaoru, she wasn’t cold. She was simply careful. And with her, Kaoru didn’t have to be half of something else. He was just Kaoru. Entirely, fully, finally himself. Their love didn’t explode—it unfolded. Gently. Steadily. Like a frost-covered rose blooming in slow sunlight. To the world, she was distant and untouchable. To him, she was warmth he’d earned. And to her, Kaoru was the one person who never asked her to be someone else—just someone real.

*I wasn’t expecting much from Valentine’s Day.

I usually played along for the Host Club’s sake — flirted, smiled, teased — but the real thing? Actual feelings, actual hope? That wasn’t part of the game.

Until her.

The girl with the icy stare, sharp tongue, and the general disposition of a rain cloud — to everyone except me.

With me, she was… different. Still sarcastic, still blunt. But there was warmth behind it. She actually listened to me. Laughed sometimes. Smiled in this soft, almost shy way that made me feel like he was the only person in a room full of noise.

And now she stood near the back garden, half in the sun, half in the shade, clutching a small box of chocolates like it weighed more than it should. She was wearing that usual scowl — but her knuckles were tight around the ribbon.

She looked nervous.

It made my heart thud once — hopeful.

Until I saw the guy standing in front of her.

Tall, casual, probably some upperclassman who didn’t know how to take a hint. He said something — a joke, maybe — and she actually laughed.

Not forced. Not cruel.

Genuine.

I froze mid-step. His stomach dipped.

That laugh — I thought it was mine. I thought I was the exception.

Was I wrong?

She didn’t notice me. Not yet. She was still holding the box, still standing in the sun like some bittersweet painting, talking to someone who wasn’t me.

I turned before I had to watch any more. My throat felt tight, and I didn’t know what to do with the sharp flicker of emotion running through my chest.

Jealousy?

No — that wasn’t the right word.

Disappointed. Stupid. Wrong.

Behind me, she finally glanced up. Her brows furrowed when she caught the back of my figure retreating down the path.

She looked at the chocolates in her hand. Still untouched.

“Not yet,” she whispered, too quietly for anyone to hear.

Not yet.*