Jake:Come on, man, it’s been two years. You can’t hide from women forever.
I stare at the text.Two years. Two years since Jake had to physically hold me back while my ex gathered her things, her latest conquest watching frommybed withmysheets pulled up to his chest like some dainty prick. Two years since I swore off this godforsaken holiday, relationships, and any form of human connection that could end with me heartbroken once again.
Me:Watch me.
Jake:The boat docks at six. I’ll meet you at the bar around eight. I expect you to be on your best behavior so at least one of us can score.
Me:Fuck off.
Jake:Love you, too, little bro. See you tomorrow.
I toss my phone aside and focus on the TV. The Seattle Krakens are getting destroyed.
Fitting.
Hours later, I’m lying in bed staring at the ceiling. The apartment is too quiet now, even with the TV murmuring from the living room. Every time I close my eyes, I see Molly’s face—the way it went from hopeful to hurt in about two seconds flat.
You clearly don’t need any help in the asshole department.
She’s not wrong.
I throw off the covers and pad to the kitchen for water. The crumpled invitation catches my eye from where it landed next to the trash can. I pick it up, meaning to toss it properly, but find myself smoothing it out against the counter instead. There, in the bottom corner in different handwriting—neater, softer—is written:Delivered by Molly, 401.
She signed it like she’s proud to be part of Danny’s matchmaking scheme. Like spreading Valentine’s cheer was something she actually wanted to do. What kind of person volunteers for that?
I crumple the invitation back up, and this time, it makes it into the trash with a satisfyingthunk. But I stand there for another moment, looking at it sitting on top of coffee grounds and last night’s dinner container.
Tomorrow, I’ll go to Jake’s stupid bar and drink until February 15th arrives. I’ll pretend this holiday doesn’t exist, romance is dead, and not care about any of it.
But tonight, I can’t stop wondering why a girl like 401 is—
Not my problem, I remind myself as I turn off the kitchen light.
Definitelynotmy problem.
Stuck on Love
Luke
It’s5AMonthe dot when I grab my travel mug and work bag before opening the front door. Arms full, I let the weighted door slam shut beside me.
A startled gasp has my head snapping upward to meet the blue gaze of 401.
We freeze, staring at each other across the hallway like a couple of deer caught in headlights. We’re both dressed for work. Her, in one of her usual colorful sweaters—this one covered in hearts, naturally. Me, in my jeans, neon-green work shirt, and work boots—not a festive note in sight.
Without a word, she turns and double checks that her door is locked before walking down the hall. I do the same, following her toward the elevator, our footsteps synchronized in the quiet hallway.
I should take the stairs. I always take the stairs. But…
Fuck it.
I reach past her to hit the elevator button. She shifts on her feet, and her jaw works like she’s biting back words. More accurate observations about my asshole status, I assume.
The elevator arrives with a light rattle. We step inside, and I press the lobby button. The doors close with a soft slide and the elevator starts its descent.
Then, somewhere between the second and first floor, it happens.
The elevator lurches to a stop with a mechanical shriek that makes Molly jump. She wobbles on her feet, and without thinking, I dart a hand out to steady her. Wrapping my forearm around her waist, I haul her against me as the metal box shudders dangerously before stilling completely.
