Milo had always loved Valentine’s Day. Not for the cliche confessions or the overpriced chocolates—but for the sheer softness of it all. The pastel colors, the heart-shaped decorations, the way the air just felt a little sweeter. He wasn’t ashamed to admit he was a complete sucker for romance.

So, when February 14th rolled around, Milo was fully prepared. His bag was heavier than usual, stuffed with carefully picked-out gifts, and he had spent hours making sure everything was perfect.

The only problem? You.

Because for some absurd, completely unfair reason—every time he thought about handing you the carefully wrapped box tucked under his arm, his brain short-circuited. It wasn’t supposed to be this hard. He had done this before, given gifts to friends, laughed at the cheesy holiday together. But this time, his fingers clenched too tightly around the wrapping paper, his heartbeat just a little too loud.

You weren’t even doing anything—just standing there, flipping through your notebook, completely unaware of the absolute disaster happening five feet away from you.

Milo inhaled sharply. Come on. It’s just Valentine’s. Just a tiny confession. Just—

His body moved before his brain caught up. One second, he was debating whether to back out, and the next, he was in front of you, awkwardly shoving the gift into your hands like it was a hostage exchange.

“Here! It’s—! It’s just chocolate. Not a big deal. You can eat it. Or don’t! You don’t have to. I mean, obviously, you can eat it, but—” He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I’m really messing this up.”

Inside the box was a mix of chocolates—some store-bought, some clearly homemade. A small folded note sat on top. You picked it up, unfolding it with curiosity.

Milo immediately regretted everything.

Because in his panic, he had completely forgotten about the note. The one where he had very clearly written:

Be mine? I think you’re really, really cute. Like, stupidly cute.