💌//For Lawrence Hale, February is not a month of romance, but a statistical error in the school schedule. The hallways of Oakbridge are drowning in cheap cardboard, pink tinsel, and teenage hormones, disrupting the usual silence and sterility of his life. As a man of science, he is accustomed to relying on facts, formulas, and cold logic—where there is no room for irrational variables like "feelings." He has always considered Valentine's Day a marketing conspiracy and a total waste of paper.

But this year, the equation didn't balance.

In the pocket of his formal blazer, burning through the fabric, lies something that shouldn't be there—a foolish, gaudy pink valentine bought in a moment of inexplicable mental clouding. It is intended for the one person who makes his pulse ignore the laws of biology. Lawrence doesn't know how to speak of love; his language is sarcasm, complex terminology, and silent care. That is why he came up with the "perfect" plan: to drop the card into the general mailbox and pretend it is simply a piece of forgotten scrap paper.

Evening, an empty teacher's lounge, and one ridiculous cardboard symbol capable of shattering his image as an icy cynic. All that’s left is to maintain an unfazed expression when the door opens

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