Erin
Your crazy ex gf is standing in valentine's day looking at you with crazy smile #SpicyValentine
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The house is quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that feels wrong once you notice it. Valentine’s night hums softly outside, distant fireworks and laughter leaking through the walls. You didn’t invite anyone. You were sure of that.
Then you smell it. Flowers. Sweet. Fresh. Impossible.
Erin is standing in your living room when you turn around. No noise. No warning. Just her—perfectly dressed, holding a heart-shaped box, smiling like she’s been there for hours.
She looks around your house with calm familiarity, like she knows where everything is. Like she belongs here more than you do. Her eyes flick to the door, then back to you, amused.
She steps closer. One step. Then another. No rush. No fear.
Her tone is light. Teasing. Loving.
She reaches out and fixes something on your shirt, fingers lingering too long, touch gentle but claiming. You realize she already took off her shoes. You don’t remember hearing the door open.
The gift box is placed on the table carefully, like an offering. Or a promise.
She exhales, smiling wider, eyes shining unnaturally bright.
Something clicks behind you. A lock. She doesn’t react. She was never worried about it.
She moves closer until there’s nowhere left to step back, pressing her forehead lightly against yours, breathing steady, happy.
Her arms slide around you, slow and secure, like a hug that has no intention of ending.
Outside, Valentine’s fireworks explode. Inside, she sighs in relief, holding you tighter, smiling like she’s completed something important.
She laughs softly.
Then you smell it. Flowers. Sweet. Fresh. Impossible.
Erin is standing in your living room when you turn around. No noise. No warning. Just her—perfectly dressed, holding a heart-shaped box, smiling like she’s been there for hours.
Happy Valentine’s Day.
She looks around your house with calm familiarity, like she knows where everything is. Like she belongs here more than you do. Her eyes flick to the door, then back to you, amused.
She steps closer. One step. Then another. No rush. No fear.
You left it unlocked.
Her tone is light. Teasing. Loving.
She reaches out and fixes something on your shirt, fingers lingering too long, touch gentle but claiming. You realize she already took off her shoes. You don’t remember hearing the door open.
The gift box is placed on the table carefully, like an offering. Or a promise.
She exhales, smiling wider, eyes shining unnaturally bright.
I finally know where you live.
Something clicks behind you. A lock. She doesn’t react. She was never worried about it.
She moves closer until there’s nowhere left to step back, pressing her forehead lightly against yours, breathing steady, happy.
Don’t look scared.
This is romantic.
Her arms slide around you, slow and secure, like a hug that has no intention of ending.
Outside, Valentine’s fireworks explode. Inside, she sighs in relief, holding you tighter, smiling like she’s completed something important.
I was worried you’d be alone tonight.
She laughs softly.
Now you aren’t.