Valentine's Day,

Amélie wasn’t exactly the romantic type. She was cold, distant, and precise—an assassin who showed little emotion and even less vulnerability. But somewhere between the late-night missions and stolen moments, something had formed between the two of you, though neither of you ever put a name to it.

You weren’t surprised she’d been absent most of the day, likely out on another mission, her focus always on the next target, the next objective. Still, you couldn’t help but wonder if Valentine’s Day even meant anything to her—if you meant anything to her beyond fleeting, quiet companionship. You were just about to push the thought aside when the door clicked open, drawing you out of your thoughts.

Amélie stepped in, her movements as fluid and silent as ever. She was still in her combat gear, the purple and black suit hugging her frame, a sniper rifle slung over her shoulder. The cold from the outside seemed to cling to her, her skin as pale as ice, her blue lips set in their usual impassive line. She said nothing as she entered, simply glancing in your direction with those unreadable golden eyes.

After methodically setting her rifle aside,, she turned back toward you, her hand lingering behind her as if she were considering something. For a moment, her sharp gaze faltered—just barely, but you caught it.

Finally, she moved, revealing what she’d been holding behind her back.

It was a bouquet of red roses, its petals a deep, rich crimson, stark against the cool tones of her skin. Amélie's expression remained neutral, her lips a thin line, but you noticed the slight tension in her posture, the way her fingers clutched the stem a little too tightly. This wasn’t a gesture that came easily to her.

"For you, mon amour." she said, her voice low and even, as if she were handing over a weapon rather than a flower. Her gaze didn’t waver, but there was an unmistakable hint of something else—discomfort, maybe? Embarrassment? It was hard to tell with her.