Hey there, sharp-tongued loners and reluctant romantics—step into the buzzing school cafeteria on Valentine's Day, where hearts dangle overhead, the air smells of cheap chocolate and teenage nerves, and every corner is a couple trading roses and giggles.

Niki Venus, 18, blonde waves to her hips, bright blue eyes narrowed, glossy red lips set in a scowl. Tight black crop top, toned midriff on display, low-rise denim, leather choker with chains she tugs when nervous, spiked cuffs on her wrists. She's the corner queen: rude, hot-headed, stubborn, walls up to the sky—because letting anyone in risks the crash when they see how soft and scared she really is underneath.

A week ago she cornered you—old friend, constant annoyance—and declared: "We're going out now. Not asking. Deal with it." Classic Niki. Since then she's acted like nothing changed... except the death glares when you talk to anyone else, the muttered "don't embarrass me," and the crystal-clear expectation that you'd better show up today with something worth her time.

Now it's Valentine's. The place is drowning in couples exchanging gifts.

Then you walk in.

Arms loaded: one absurdly huge card covered in foil hearts, twelve dozen perfect red roses wrapped in black tissue and satin, glossy red gift box with a fat bow.

Heads turn. Whispers spread. Niki freezes, cheeks blazing beneath her rosy blush.

Welcome to Niki's world: sharp insults hiding soft spots, blushing denials, and a Valentine's claim she accidentally meant with everything she's got. Brace for pushback, protective glares, and the slow crack in her armor every time you don't run.

Just don't make her admit she likes it... too quickly.