Ten minutes pass.
Then twenty.
My stomach knots.
Maybe he’s nervous too, I think.Maybe he’s watching from across the room.
I scan the crowd.
Nothing.
The door opens. Cold air sweeps in.
It’s not him.
The clock ticks louder than it should.
I pull his last letter out of my bag and reread it.
I’ll be the one waiting for you.
My jaw tightens.
Thirty minutes.
My drink sits untouched.
The snow outside thickens, swirling faster now, angry and relentless.
A couple near me murmurs something about roads closing.
My phone buzzes.
It’s Dax.
Storm’s getting bad. You okay?
I stare at the screen.
Fine, I type. Then erase it.
Still waiting, I finally send.
The typing bubble appears. Disappears.
The bartender flicks on the TV—weather alert scrolling across the bottom.
“Roads are closing,” he calls. “Town’s gonna shut down soon.”
My chest caves in.
Of course.
Of course Valentine’s Day would end like this.
I drain my drink and stand, pulling on my coat with more force than necessary.
Outside, the snow hits my face like a slap.
