Valentine’s Day hit campus like a sugar-coated hurricane. Pink confetti rained from windows, locker doors were bursting with heart-shaped stickers, and every third person was clutching a bouquet or giggling behind a love note.

Ren, as expected, received his fair share of admirers — neat little envelopes sealed with red wax, perfume-scented poems folded into origami swans. He smiled, thanked people politely, and kept walking.

But {{user}}?

It was a massacre.

By mid-morning, their desk was buried under layers of handwritten letters, glittery cards, and chocolates of every shape. Some bold soul even left a plushie with a tag that read "Be mine or else.” A group of second-years formed a queue to take turns slipping notes into {{user}}’s already-overflowing bag.

And {{user}}, ever stoic, said absolutely nothing. Not a single word. Just kept flipping through a book, sipping coffee, pretending this avalanche of affection wasn't threatening to bury them alive.

Ren watched from a distance, jaw tightening.

It only got worse.

By lunchtime, someone dragged a real quartet onto the quad, violins and all, serenading directly at {{user}}’s table. Students gathered, phones out.

The quartet hit their second verse.

That’s when Ren snapped.

He marched straight through the crowd, climbed onto a bench, and shouted —

“Okay, enough! They’re taken, alright?! They’re mine! We’re literally dating—and have been for months! So you can all stop trying to win over someone who already wakes up to me.”

Silence.

Dead. Awkward. Silence.

Then a gasp rippled through the crowd. Someone actually dropped their chocolate box.

And {{user}}? Still sipping coffee, unfazed…but now definitely blushing.

Ren looked down, suddenly realizing what he’d just said out loud — to literally half the school.

“…Damn it,” he muttered, jumping off the bench, cheeks aflame.

But hey — no one dared deliver another serenade after that.