Valentines Day

February 14 meant nothing in her world.

Not to the demons who marked time in eclipse cycles. Not to the nobles who counted dates by war treaties and fallen kingdoms. And certainly not to Vilo, who didn't even acknowledge the concept of birthdays until I forced her to eat cake during hers last season.

But to me?

It was Valentine's Day.

And somehow, despite the volcano chambers and cursed gardens and monster-slaying schedules, I still remembered.

So I baked her a cake.

From scratch.

No enchanted flour, no basilisk eggs, no phoenix frosting—just simple, honest ingredients I'd begged from the kitchen: flour, sugar, butter, a hint of vanilla, and the best berries I could find that weren't poisonous. The result was a little uneven, slightly lopsided, and the icing was… honest. But I carved her crest into the top in sugar glaze and set it in the middle of our shared table.

When she entered the room that morning—fresh from battle planning, cloak still dusted with frost—I stepped forward and offered the plate.

"Here."

She raised an eyebrow. "What is this?"

"A cake."

"I gathered that."

"It's for you."

She studied it, then me. "What did you do?"

"Nothing! It's Valentine's Day."

She blinked. "That's not a thing."

"It is where I'm from."

"Explain."

So I did.

I told her about a holiday where people showed their love with candy, gifts, notes, and yes—dessert. I explained that it was about closeness. Affection. Romance. Even small gestures counted.

She listened with arms crossed, wings tucked tight, expression unreadable.

Then, silently, she picked up a fork.

She took a bite.

Chewed.

Swallowed.

"…It's sweet."

"Too sweet?"

"No. Just… sweet."

I waited.

She didn't say anything else.

Just kept eating.

Slow, careful bites.

No praise. No reaction.

I told myself it was fine.

I didn't need anything more.

I was wrong.

It wasn't until the middle of the day—after I'd returned from delivering sealed orders to the guard tower—that it happened.

I was walking through one of the west halls, minding my own business, half-humming under my breath, when I heard her voice.

"Stand still."

I froze.

Something in her tone didn't sound angry… but it didn't sound not angry either. And given her track record for vaporizing people who startled her mid-thought, I obeyed immediately.

"Yes?"

I didn't even have time to turn.

She was behind me in an instant.

One hand grabbed my shoulder.

The other cupped my cheek.

Then, without warning, she spun me and kissed me.

Hard.

It wasn't chaste. It wasn't polite.

It was hungry.

Her mouth claimed mine, full and warm, her breath hot against my skin. I barely managed to stay upright as she pressed me back against the nearest wall. Her claws curled into my jacket as her lips moved over mine, slow and thorough and devastatingly skilled.

Time stopped.

So did my brain.

When she finally pulled away—several minutes later—I was breathless.

Stunned.

A mess.

She looked at me with calm, half-lidded eyes and said simply:

"Is that an appropriate gift for this holiday?"

I blinked rapidly. "Y-Yes."

She tilted her head. "You're red."

"Th-that tends to happen when you're kissed like that."

"You're nervous."

I swallowed. "A little."

"Why?"

I looked down. "Because you don't… usually show affection like that. At least not in public. Or unprompted. Or at all unless I nearly die."

She stared at me.

Then she frowned.

Actually pouted.

Like I'd insulted her tea-making skills or stepped on her cape.

"I give you affection," she muttered.

"I didn't say you didn't. Just… not often."

She folded her arms. "You're fragile."

"I can still handle kisses."

She turned slightly.

Started pacing.

Muttering.

"I cuddled you in the throne room. That one time."

"That was three months ago."

"I let you brush my hair."

"Once."

"I killed that soldier who insulted your collar."

"That wasn't affection, that was a warning."

"It was both."

I couldn't help it. I laughed.

She whirled.

"You think I'm bad at this."

"No! No. Not bad. Just… reserved."

She squinted.

I took a step back.

"I didn't mean it as an insult—"

She pounced.

I didn't even get to yelp.

One moment I was standing, the next I was flat on my back, breath knocked out of me, Vilo straddling my waist in a blur of silver and silk and fury.

She pinned my wrists to the floor.

"You think I don't know how to be affectionate?" she said.

"I never said—"

"Then shut up."

And then she kissed me again.

Harder.

Slower.

Deeper.

Her lips brushed mine, then pressed again, over and over, pulling little gasps from my mouth before swallowing them whole. She didn't rush. She didn't hesitate.

She kissed like someone trying to make a point.

And I got it.

Loud and clear.

When she pulled back again, her eyes burned emerald bright.

"I am affectionate," she said breathlessly. "I just pick my moments."

"…I can tell."

She leaned closer again, her hair falling around us in a curtain of silver.

"Happy Valentine's Day," she whispered.

Then, almost accusingly:

"You're mine."

I nodded, dazed. "Always."

She smirked.

"Next year," she said, "you'll bake me two cakes."

"Anything you want."

And for the first time in hours, she smiled.

Not the smug smirk. Not the cold grin. Not the smoldering one she gave before battle.

Just a real, happy smile.

And that was sweeter than any dessert I could've made.