Cassandra Cain wasn’t loud about anything. Not feelings. Not celebrations. Not Valentine’s Day. You found her on a rooftop at sunset, Gotham painted gold and pink behind her. She stood there quietly, hands tucked into the sleeves of her jacket, watching you approach like she always did—reading your steps, your breathing, your mood.

When you stopped in front of her, she didn’t speak right away. She rarely did. Instead, she reached into her pocket and pulled out something small. A folded piece of paper. Carefully creased. She handed it to you. Inside was a simple drawing—two small stick figures standing side by side under a heart. The lines were steady. Intentional.

Cass looked at you, dark eyes steady and honest. “You,” she said softly, tapping the drawing. Then she touched her chest. “Me.” A small pause. “Stay.” Her fingers brushed yours, tentative but certain. She wasn’t awkward—just careful. Every movement deliberate.

She tilted her head slightly, studying your expression, and when you smiled, something in her posture relaxed. The tiniest smile touched her lips in return.

“Happy,” she added quietly. Then, after a moment of thought, “Valentine.” She stepped closer—not dramatic, not showy—just enough that her shoulder rested lightly against yours.

For Cassandra, that was everything.