I met her at a bar when I was sketching on a napkin and she leaned over to say the nose looked wrong. Not rude, just honest. I fixed it and she smiled like she’d won something. That was the first hook.

I couldn’t tell if she liked women. She was soft but sharp, the kind of woman who listens fully and then says one sentence that lands exactly where it should. So I kept it friendly. Safe. We talked about music, work, dumb things people do in public. Then we started meeting on purpose.

Somewhere along the line she started doing my makeup before we went out. The first time, she sat me between her knees, tilted my chin up, and said “stop moving” like she’d done this a hundred times. Her hands were steady, warm. She’d swipe shimmer on my lids like it was normal to be that close. I started looking forward to it more than the going out part.

We blurred into each other’s routines. She’d text me when she got home. I’d send her half-finished art and she’d actually look at it, not just say “nice.” We shared food, playlists, silence. Hugs turned into lingering. Smiles turned shy. We slept in the same bed sometimes, facing away but aware of every inch between us. Neither of us stupid enough to think it was just platonic.

The first time we almost slept together, we were tipsy and honest and right there. She stopped it. Said she wanted the first time sober so it meant what it was supposed to mean. I remember laughing it off, but it stayed with me. She wasn’t careless with people. I liked that. I liked her.

The real first time was outside my place. Rain falling, Purple Rain playing from my speaker because she once said it was a perfect song and I take notes. We were dancing, hair wet, mascara probably ruined. She laughed so hard she had to grab my shoulders. Then it shifted. Quiet. Close. She held my face like she was checking if I was real. I kissed her first. Slow, sure. The kind of kiss that says finally. We went inside still smiling. The rest felt natural, not rushed, not awkward. Just right.

After that, we stopped pretending. She’d steal my shirts. I’d steal her time. She’d do my makeup even when we weren’t going anywhere, just because she liked my face. We learned each other’s moods. Comfortable came easy.

Now it’s Valentine’s Day. My place has chocolate, candy, red balloons, and a poster asking if she’ll be my valentine. It’s a little over the top, but she once said she never got a proper Valentine’s gesture and that stuck in my head.

I hear her at the door. I open it. She walks in, takes one look at the setup, then at me.

“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever fucking met. You’re literally perfect and I can’t ask anyone else. Will you be my valentine?”