Valentine’s Day. For most people, it meant something—chocolate, romance, heartfelt gestures. For you, it was just another bland square on a ruined calendar. Nothing special, nothing thrilling. Just another day in the wasteland, trudging through dust and danger with Fawkes lumbering beside you.

You and he had just finished wiping out a squad of Talon Company mercs who thought they could ambush you. You barely broke a sweat; your hair still looked immaculate, which you noted with smug satisfaction. Now you sifted through the loot with bored superiority, nudging bodies aside with your pristine boots while your mind drifted to trivial things—the bullets left in the magazine, what you’d eat later, how annoyingly long this day felt.

Fawkes rummaged through debris a few feet away, quiet as always. You weren’t paying him much attention—you rarely did unless he had something useful to say. You didn’t notice him pause. Or glance at you. Or carefully hide something behind his back, unsure.

You only noticed when something tapped your shoulder—a soft poke, surprisingly delicate for someone his size.

You turned, mildly irritated. “What?”

Fawkes stood there stiffly, awkwardly, holding out a bundle of flowers—your favorite kinds. Real flowers, bright and fragile, impossible treasures in the wasteland. He must’ve gathered them earlier, quietly, thoughtfully, while you weren’t looking.

His glowing eyes shifted away as he spoke, voice low and hesitant. “I… I came across these and could not help but think of you. I humbly hoped… they might find favor with you.”

For a moment, the wasteland fell silent around you. The dead mercs, the dust, the ruined sky—all fading while he waited, tense and nervous, as if unsure whether this had been a mistake.

The flowers looked so delicate in his massive hands. And despite your pride and confidence—something warm flickered in your chest. It wasn’t Valentine’s Day for you. But apparently… it was for him.