Kids, Valentine's Day is supposed to be simple.
Chocolates
Flowers
Maybe a fancy dinner
Definitely at least one terrible prix fixe menu
But the truth?
Sometimes Valentine's Day shows up dressed like romance…
…and underneath, it's carrying a one-way plane ticket.
---
Hearts, Deadlines, and A Plane Across the Ocean
By this point, I'd been dating Victoria for a while.
We had:
A bakery
A story
A near-sex night ruined by my friends
A game night where she watched one of my worst moments play on VHS and didn't run
In other words: things were actually going well.
So of course, the universe said:
> "Cool. Let's see what you do if we set it on fire."
---
It started the week before Valentine's Day.
Victoria and I were in her bakery, "Bonjour, Patisserie," after closing.
The place looked like Cupid had sneezed on it.
Pink boxes stacked in the corner.
Heart-shaped cookies drying on racks.
A chalkboard menu with things like "Lover's Torte" and "Anti-Valentine's Espresso Shot."
I was sitting at the counter, tying ribbons around boxes.
"You didn't have to stay," she said, moving between the ovens and the counter like she was doing a dance only she knew the steps to.
"I like this," I said. "Helping. Watching. Stealing test cookies. Witnessing your slow descent into madness."
She snorted.
"Madness is what happens after Valentine's Day," she said. "This is just the warm-up."
She slid a tray of cupcakes onto the counter between us.
Little perfect red velvet hearts with cream cheese frosting.
"These are for tomorrow's pre-orders," she warned. "Touch them and I'll break your fingers and sue your estate."
"Hot," I said.
She smirked.
"Flattery will not save your hands," she replied.
We worked in comfortable silence for a bit.
She boxed cupcakes; I tied bows.
Outside, New York was all freezing wind and confused window displays.
Inside, it was warm and smelled like sugar and butter and a little bit like heaven.
"So," she said casually, not looking at me, "got any big plans for Valentine's Day?"
I hesitated.
"Well, I was thinking…" I began.
She cut in quickly.
"Full disclosure," she said. "Valentine's Day is my worst day for dating. I work a sixteen-hour shift, I'm covered in frosting, and by the time I get home I'm basically a decorative corpse."
"That is… a strong visual," I said.
"I'm just saying," she went on, "if you had anything epic in mind—fancy dinner, carriage ride, rooftop string quartet—we might want to scale down your internal montage. For your own good."
I smiled.
"I was thinking…" I tried again, a little more careful, "maybe I bring you dinner at the bakery when you get a break. Keep it simple. Chinese takeout, fortune cookies, minimal swooning."
She looked up.
Her eyes softened.
"That sounds… perfect," she said. "One condition."
"Name it," I said.
"No giant speeches about destiny over lo mein," she said. "I like you so much more when you're not trying to narrate us like a movie trailer."
"Rude," I said. "Accurate, but rude."
She leaned over the counter, kissed my forehead.
"I want this one to feel like ours," she said quietly. "Not like proof of something."
My heart did a very Mosby thing.
"Okay," I said. "One low-pressure Valentine's delivery. No speeches. Minimal symbolism. Just… takeout and your favorite guy."
"And my favorite cupcakes," she added.
"Obviously," I said. "I'm not an amateur."
She smiled.
But behind it, just for a second, I saw something else.
A flicker.
Like she'd remembered something and then shoved it back into a drawer.
"Hey," I said. "You okay?"
"Yeah," she said quickly. "Just… tired. Too many heart sprinkles. I'm starting to dream in sugar roses."
I let it go.
Because that's what you do when things are finally going well:
You ignore the little flickers.
---
Meanwhile, Marshall and Lily were having their own pre-Valentine's meltdown.
At home, Marshall sat at the kitchen table in a depressing tie, staring at a glossy pamphlet.
"'Nicholson, Hewitt & West: Corporate Law for the Modern Age,'" Lily read over his shoulder. "Wow. That sounds like a place where dreams go to sit in cubicles until they die."
"They pay so much money," Marshall moaned.
"You didn't go to law school to help oil companies sue trees," she said.
"I also didn't go to law school to be broke," he replied. "I want to work for environmental law, but those jobs pay in… hugs and recycled paper."
Lily grabbed the pamphlet, then grabbed his face.
"You are not a corporate shark," she said firmly. "You are a future champion of adorable baby seals."
He looked torn.
"I just thought," he confessed, "maybe I could do corporate for a few years, make bank, pay off my loans, buy you a house, and then go save the world."
"And what if you never get out?" she asked quietly. "What if you wake up in ten years and you're… a guy in a suit whose favorite thing is frequent flyer miles?"
He deflated.
"That's… my nightmare," he admitted.
She leaned her forehead against his.
"I love you in suits," she said. "But not for suits."
He smiled weakly.
"Why does our future cost so much?" he complained.
"Because capitalism is a dumpster fire," Lily said. "But we're in it together, okay?"
He nodded.
And then, as if summoned by the word capitalism, Nox walked into the apartment carrying a Nyx Co garment bag and a laptop.
"Speaking of dumpster fires," he said. "Anyone want free food and terrible company in the form of rich people tonight?"
"Always," Marshall said automatically.
"What's going on?" Lily asked.
"Nyx Co is sponsoring a Valentine's charity gala," Nox said. "I have to show up, say a few words, pretend I enjoy being the poster boy for 'ethical billionaire' for a few hours."
"You are an ethical billionaire," Lily pointed out.
"Yeah," he said. "But the more they say it, the dirtier it feels."
He dropped the garment bag onto the couch.
"What's that?" Marshall asked.
"Suits for all of you," Nox said. "If you want to come. Bryce insisted I invite my 'scrappy Brooklyn family' instead of some board members. Her words, not mine."
Lily's eyes widened.
"You want us to go to a fancy gala?" she asked. "Like… with donors and champagne and tiny food?"
"Yes," Nox said. "Come mock rich people with me. It'll be fun."
Marshall held up the pamphlet.
"What if I want to… network?" he asked timidly. "Just a little. Corporate law people will be there, right?"
Lily shot him a look.
Nox noticed.
"Trouble in job paradise?" he asked.
Lily sighed.
"He got an offer from a big firm," she said. "And I'm trying not to freak out about the idea of him turning into… well, you."
"Wow," Nox said. "Rude. Fair, but rude."
Marshall looked embarrassed.
"I just want to keep our options open," he said. "Provide. Be responsible."
Nox sat at the table across from him.
"Okay," he said. "Real talk."
"Uh-oh," Lily muttered.
"Marshall," Nox said, "if you take the corporate job because you love the work, because you get high off the argument and the deal and the win? Great. You'll thrive. If you take it because you're terrified of being broke, you're going to wake up one day with a panic attack in a corner office."
Marshall swallowed.
"That's… specific," he said.
"I've seen it," Nox said. "Kids who started companies because they loved solving problems? They're fine. Kids who started companies just because they wanted to be rich? They're miserable and weird and collect yachts like Funko Pops."
Lily snorted despite herself.
Nox looked between them.
"You two are… disgustingly in love," he said. "You'll survive cheap furniture and Instant Ramen longer than you'll survive him hating himself in a $5,000 suit."
Silence.
Then Lily smiled.
"I like it when you accidentally give good advice," she said.
Nox shrugged.
"Side effect of having therapy and money at the same time," he said. "My point: don't sell your soul just to afford nicer towels. Mediocre towels are fine if you still like who you are when you dry off."
Marshall nodded slowly.
"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, okay. I… needed to hear that."
Nox stood, grabbed the garment bag.
"You're still coming to the gala," he added. "Just… as people who are making interesting choices, not desperate ones."
"Deal," Marshall said.
"Can I wear one of your suits?" Lily asked.
"Yes," Nox said solemnly. "And you will look better in it than I do, which will hurt my feelings, but I'll survive."
She beamed.
---
While they were figuring that out, I was still in bakery-land—blissfully unaware that Germany was about to kick down the door.
Two days before Valentine's Day, I walked into "Bonjour" with coffee.
The bell chimed.
"Hey," I called. "I come bearing caffeine and a burning passion for croissants."
No answer.
The bakery was… quiet.
Too quiet.
The front lights were on, but the "OPEN" sign was flipped to "CLOSED," even though it was still business hours.
"Victoria?" I called again.
I heard a noise in the kitchen.
Not the usual clatter. Something like… a choked laugh.
I pushed through the swinging door.
"Hey, I—"
She was sitting on a flour-dusted stool, elbows on her knees, staring at a letter.
Not crying.
Not smiling.
Just… stunned.
"Hey," I said more softly. "You okay?"
She looked up at me like she'd been underwater and just now remembered air existed.
"Oh," she said. "Hi."
My chest tightened.
"What happened?" I asked. "Is everything okay? Did someone yell at you about gluten again? Because I will fight them."
She blinked.
Then held up the letter.
"I got in," she said numbly.
My brain, very helpfully, decided to throw up a blue screen.
"Got in… where?" I asked.
"Germany," she said.
There it was.
The thing we'd been pretending was a distant, theoretical cloud?
Yeah.
It had a lightning bolt.
"You… got the fellowship," I said slowly.
She nodded.
"I thought I didn't," she said. "They waitlisted me. They said maybe next year. But apparently someone dropped out. They had a spot for this term."
"That's… amazing," I said honestly. "Vic, that's—"
She cut me off.
"I leave in a week," she said.
The words fell like bricks.
"One week?" I repeated. "As in… seven days?"
"Six," she corrected. "They want me there early. To get settled. Learn the ovens. Figure out what to do with my life."
She laughed, short and humorless.
"I have to close the bakery," she said. "Pack my stuff. Tell my landlord. Tell my suppliers. I don't even know how to tell Mrs. Delaney, and she's eighty-three and thinks I live in the back room like a cartoon mouse."
My heart pounded.
"You're going," I said.
It wasn't a question.
She studied me.
"What kind of idiot would say no to this?" she asked quietly.
"Not you," I said. "You worked too hard for this. You'd hate yourself if you didn't at least try."
She nodded.
"Yeah," she said. "I think so too."
The coffee cups in my hand had gone cold.
"So," I said slowly, "what does that… mean? For… us?"
There it was.
The question we'd been dancing around since the terrace.
Germany had stopped being an idea.
It was a date on a calendar.
Six days.
She looked like she wanted to crack a joke.
Didn't.
"I don't know," she said softly. "I really… don't know."
We sat in the flour-dusted kitchen, the ovens humming behind us, the smell of sugar and yeast suddenly feeling heavy.
"This is the part in the movie," I said carefully, "where one of us says something dramatic. 'Come with me to Europe,' or 'Stay here with me, forget your dreams.'"
She didn't smile.
"Yeah," she said. "And then they kiss and the music swells and nobody thinks about visas or money or what happens if the dream doesn't work out."
She looked at the letter again.
"Real life doesn't… cut to credits," she said.
My brain, my stupid, romantic, Mosby brain, was already doing math.
I could move.
I could do architecture anywhere.
People built things in Germany.
I could learn German.
I liked pretzels.
Or we could do long-distance.
Planes existed.
Phones.
Emails.
People did this.
Right?
She watched my face, like she knew exactly which mental monologue I was rehearsing.
"Don't say it," she said quietly.
"Say what?" I asked.
"Anything you haven't thought through," she replied.
We stared at each other over that letter.
Germany.
Six days.
My chest hurt.
"I should get back out front," she said finally. "I have Valentine's orders to finish. People still want heart-shaped things, even if mine is… very confused."
She stood.
I stood.
We didn't touch.
I hated that we didn't touch.
"Do you want me to… stay?" I asked. "Help? Or go? I don't know what the appropriate… boyfriend protocol is for surprise international life change."
She hesitated.
"Stay," she said finally. "But don't… try to fix it yet. Just… be here."
That, kids, was the first time I realized something very important:
Sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is stay in the room with something you can't fix.
---
That night, back at the apartment, I paced.
Marshall and Lily sat on the couch with pamphlets and job ads strewn around them.
Nox and Bryce were getting ready to leave for the Nyx Co gala—he in a dark three-piece suit, she in an emerald dress that made the entire room feel underdressed.
"So let me get this straight," Nox said, watching me wear a hole in the rug. "Your girlfriend just got her dream offer in Germany, she leaves in six days, and your plan is… cardio?"
"I don't know what my plan is," I said. "My plan is 'panic quietly' followed by 'maybe move to Europe' followed by 'collapse.'"
"Flying to another continent is not a personality trait," Bryce said gently. "It's a logistics problem and a personality trait."
Lily looked up from the coffee table.
"You're not actually considering moving to Germany, are you?" she asked.
"Why not?" I shot back. "People move for love all the time."
"Yeah," she said. "But usually they've been together longer than… checks notes… one and a half months."
"It's more than that," I protested. "We have a whole wedding, and a drumroll, and a—"
"VHS of your psychological issues," Nox added.
"Thank you," I muttered.
Marshall scratched his head.
"Could you get a job there?" he asked. "Like, architect stuff? You don't speak German."
"I could learn," I said. "Buildings are universal. Gravity works the same."
Bryce tilted her head.
"This isn't just about being romantic, Ted," she said. "Moving countries is… intense. You'd be leaving your work, your friends, your whole life. Big choices shouldn't be made just because you're scared of losing someone."
"I am scared of losing her," I admitted. "Is that… wrong?"
"No," Lily said. "It's human. But you can't throw your entire life onto a conveyor belt every time you fall hard for someone."
"I don't fall hard that often," I argued.
Everyone in the room made a sound.
Somewhere between a laugh and a choke.
"Okay," I corrected. "I fall hard… regularly. But this is different."
Nox leaned back in the armchair.
"Here's the thing," he said. "You have three options."
"Please make them simple," I begged.
"Option one," he said, counting on his fingers. "You move with her. Throw your life in a suitcase, become Berlin Mosby, hope it works out."
"It's not Berlin," I said. "It's… somewhere else."
"German Mosby," he amended. "Whatever. Option two: you stay, you try long-distance, you both juggle time zones until one of you cracks."
"Comforting," I said.
"Option three," he continued, "you enjoy the next six days, say goodbye like adults, and let this be a beautiful, contained thing instead of stretching it until it breaks."
I hated all three options.
"I don't want to break up," I said quietly.
No joke.
No sarcasm.
Just that.
Bryce softened.
"No one wants to," she said. "But sometimes… not choosing is also a choice. If you don't talk about this with her, if you just… drift, the clock will run out and you'll end up with the worst version of all three—half-packed, half-together, half-healed."
Lily nodded.
"We watched you do that with other women," she said. "Don't do it with her."
Marshall frowned.
"I can't believe I'm about to say this," he said slowly, "but… maybe Barney has a point."
We all stared.
"He's not even here," I said. "Don't summon him."
"No," Marshall insisted. "He always says, 'New is always better.' And he's wrong. But… you can't always live in 'what if.' Sometimes you have to pick a thing and go all in, even if it might hurt."
Nox glanced at Bryce.
She squeezed his hand.
"Look," she said to me, "you don't have to decide tonight. Or alone. Talk to her. Ask what she wants. Not just what you think a grand gesture should look like."
I sat down, finally, the adrenaline starting to fade into something like exhaustion.
"So what do I do for Valentine's Day?" I asked. "Do I still show up with takeout and pretend everything isn't on fire?"
"Yes," Nox said immediately. "Exactly that. Because it is on fire. You can't un-ignite it. But you can sit next to her while it burns and figure out if you're… putting it out together or roasting marshmallows while it goes."
"Terrible metaphor," Bryce said.
"Strong visual," Lily said.
I rubbed my eyes.
"You think she'd want me to go with her?" I asked.
Nox considered.
"I think," he said slowly, "she wants to take this fellowship without worrying that you torched your life for a fantasy of her. I also think she wouldn't have kissed you on that terrace if she wasn't open to something. But what that looks like? You two have to build it."
Marshall smiled faintly.
"Architect joke?" he asked.
"Not on purpose," Nox said. "I hate that I did that."
They all smiled at me.
Imperfect. Concerned.
But… in my corner.
"What are you going to do?" Lily asked gently.
I stared at the ceiling.
"I'm going to bring her dinner," I said finally. "And I'm going to ask her what she actually wants. Not just what I'm afraid of."
"That," Bryce said, standing, "is a very un-Ted move. I like it."
Nox grabbed his coat.
"And if you decide you do want to move to Germany," he added lightly, "ask me first. Nyx Co has European branches. I can at least make sure you don't end up renting a shoebox above a sausage shop unless that's your kink."
"Thank you," I said. "I think."
He clapped my shoulder.
"Whatever happens," he said, "don't make choices just to avoid pain. Make them because they're true."
And kids… that sounds simple.
It is not.
Because the truth isn't always the thing that hurts less.
Sometimes, it's the thing that hurts right now but saves you years later.
At that point, all I knew was this:
I loved my life in New York.
I was falling hard for a girl who'd just been handed her dream in another country.
And Valentine's Day was in two days, waiting like a test I hadn't studied for.
The drumroll?
Yeah.
It was back.
But this time, it wasn't about a kiss.
It was about an answer.
And that's where we'll pause for now—
right before the takeout,
the cupcakes,
and the first real conversation where we both had to admit what we were actually willing to risk.
---
Kids, Valentine's Day is supposed to be about hearts.
This one was about a map.
Valentine's Day.
The streets were full of:
Guys carrying grocery-store roses like trophies
Women pretending they didn't care about Valentine's Day while very clearly caring
Single people acting way too invested in their "it's just Thursday" energy
And me?
I was headed to a bakery with a bag of takeout and my entire future rattling around in my chest.
---
"Bonjour, Patisserie" was chaos.
Every table taken.
Couples lined up out the door.
Cupcakes disappearing faster than Victoria could frost them.
She was moving like a hummingbird—hair tied up, apron dusted in flour, cheeks flushed pink from the oven heat and stress.
"Ted, hi!" one of her staff called as I squeezed in from the side door. "She's in the back, deep in frosting hell."
I held up the takeout bag.
"I brought reinforcements," I said.
The girl grinned.
"She's gonna propose," she said. "To the noodles."
---
In the kitchen, Victoria stood over a tray of cupcakes, hand moving in perfect circles.
"Table six needs their order," someone said.
"Oven one is dinging," someone else said.
"The chocolate fountain is weeping," another voice added.
"I'm one person," Victoria groaned. "Someone tell the fountain to get it together."
I stepped in.
"Hi," I said. "I come bearing carbs."
She looked up like I'd just dropped from the ceiling.
"Ted," she breathed. "You're here."
I held up the bag.
"General Tso, dumplings, lo mein, and one extremely nervous architect," I said. "Happy Valentine's Day."
She actually smiled.
"Put it on the prep table," she said. "If I stop moving for more than three seconds, the entire system collapses."
I set the bag down, grabbed a spare apron, and jumped in.
"Teach me," I said. "Boss me. I submit to the frosting overlords."
She didn't argue.
For the next hour, we moved in sync.
She filled; I boxed.
She piped; I sprinkled.
She shouted orders; I shouted them louder.
Somewhere in there, she stole a dumpling, took a bite, and moaned like it was salvation.
"Oh my God," she said. "That's the best thing I've tasted all day that wasn't 80% sugar."
"Glad to be of service," I said.
By eight, the rush thinned.
By nine, it was just us and a few stragglers.
By ten, the front was dark.
The "OPEN" sign flipped to "CLOSED."
She sagged against the counter.
"I can't feel my everything," she said.
"Sit," I ordered. "Doctor's orders."
"You're not a doctor," she said.
"I have a first-aid kit and a Google habit," I replied. "Sit."
She did.
I unpacked the rest of the takeout, lit a couple of leftover votive candles from a catering job, and sat across from her at the tiny staff table.
In the quiet, the bakery felt… different.
Not chaotic.
Just…
Ours.
"Happy Valentine's Day," I said softly.
She looked at everything—food, candles, me—and exhaled, something tender flickering in her eyes.
"This is perfect," she said. "It's not… movie-perfect. It's… us-perfect."
We ate.
For a while, we just talked about nothing important.
Her most obnoxious customers.
My worst clients.
Marshall and Lily dressing up in Nyx Co suits for the gala and sending us one blurry selfie.
I made her laugh with my impression of Barney explaining what Valentine's Day means to him ("It's Halloween with better lighting and more lingerie").
She made me laugh with her impression of her oven ("You want consistent temperature? LOL NO").
For about twenty minutes, it felt like this was just a normal night.
Then the letter on the counter caught my eye.
Germany.
Right.
The drumroll came back.
Louder.
I set my chopsticks down.
"Can I ask you something?" I said.
She knew before I finished.
"Germany," she said.
"Yeah," I said.
She wiped her hands on a towel.
"Okay," she said. "Let's talk about it. For real, this time."
We sat there, across a tiny table, with takeout containers between us and an ocean somewhere over our heads.
---
"Do you want me to go with you?" I asked.
There it was.
The big, stupid, real question.
Her eyes went wide with honest surprise.
"I…" she started, then stopped. "Do you want to go with me?"
I thought about it.
Like, really thought about it.
About my life here.
My work.
My friends.
My city.
My brother down the street, accidentally being an ethical billionaire.
Then I thought about her.
About the terrace.
The game night.
The way she looked right now—tired and hopeful and completely herself.
"Yes," I said. "Part of me really does."
Her face softened.
"And the rest?" she asked.
"Is terrified," I admitted. "Of picking up my whole life and dropping it in a place where I don't speak the language, don't have a job, don't know anyone except you."
"That's… fair," she said quietly.
"And I'm scared," I added, "that if I do that, and it doesn't work out for us, I'll resent you someday. Which would be… the opposite of what I want."
She exhaled, like she'd been holding that exact fear in her chest too.
"Yeah," she said. "Me too."
I frowned.
"You're scared you'd resent me?" I asked.
She nodded.
"Ted," she said gently, "this fellowship is… huge. It's the first thing that's really been about me. Not about my ex's career, or my parents' expectations, or how convenient I am to someone else's life."
She looked down at her hands.
"If you threw your whole life in a suitcase for me," she said, "I'd feel… guilty. Like I stole something. And if I started feeling like I owed you for that? That's a different kind of trap."
That stung.
Not because she was wrong.
Because she was so painfully right.
"So what do we do?" I asked. "Just… break up?"
She looked like I'd punched her.
"I don't want to," she said. "Do you?"
"No," I said immediately. "God, no."
"Okay," she said. "So… maybe there's an option four."
I blinked.
"Option four?" I asked. "I didn't know we had an option four."
"We make this next part… finite," she said. "We actually do the thing people say they're going to do and almost never do. We try long-distance. For real. For a set time. And then we… check in."
"You mean, like… a year?" I asked.
She thought.
"No," she said. "Less. A year is… impressionistic. Too easy to drift. Six months. We give it six months. We talk. We visit if we can. We see what this looks like outside of bakery lighting."
"And then?" I asked quietly.
"And then," she said, "we get brutally honest. If it's not working, we don't drag it out just because we're afraid of failing. We call it. If it is working, we figure out the real logistics. Jobs. Visas. Where we want to live. Together."
I sat back.
"That sounds… unromantic," I said.
"It is," she said. "It's almost aggressively unromantic. It's… adult."
I considered.
Kid-me would've hated that.
Twenty-two-year-old me would've given a speech about once-in-a-lifetime chances, bought a last-minute plane ticket, and trusted the montage.
But this me?
He'd seen what happened when you built a future on speeches and panic.
"Six months," I repeated.
"Six months," she said.
"That feels like… not enough," I said.
"It's what I can do without losing myself," she replied. "I can't promise you forever from another continent. I can promise you six months of trying our best."
My chest ached.
"But what if it is forever?" I asked. "What if we're… it?"
She smiled sadly.
"If we are," she said, "we'll still be it in six months. If we're not, dragging it out for eighteen won't change that."
I wanted to argue.
I really did.
But truth has a way of sitting in the room and refusing to move.
"Okay," I said quietly. "Then… six months."
She studied my face.
"You mean it?" she asked. "Because if this is your version of a speech, I'd rather you say 'I can't do that' right now."
I swallowed.
"I mean it," I said. "I don't want to hold you back. I want to… see if we can do this the hard way instead of the dramatic way."
She let out a breath she'd clearly been holding.
"Okay," she said. "Then that's our plan."
We sat there a second, letting the shape of it settle between us.
"Part of me still wants to run to the airport with you," I said.
"Part of me wants you to," she admitted. "There's a version of this story where we're idiots and it's very romantic."
"Yeah," I said softly. "But I already tried being that guy. He has a VHS."
She winced, then laughed.
"Fair," she said. "Let's see if this guy does any better."
---
Meanwhile, across town, Nox and Bryce were at a Nyx Co gala in a hotel ballroom that looked like money had gotten drunk and decided to mate with a chandelier.
People in black tie swirled around them.
A jazz band played in the corner.
Waiters floated past with trays of tiny, perfect food that tasted like salt and tax deductions.
Nox stood at the edge of the crowd, tie already loosened, looking like the only person there who remembered this was technically optional.
"I hate this," he muttered.
Bryce slipped her hand into his.
"I know," she said. "But you look stupidly good doing it."
He watched an old man laugh too hard at a joke he clearly didn't understand, hand on the back of a much younger woman's chair.
"Half these people don't care what Nyx Co does," he said. "They just want to stand next to a headline and feel interesting."
"Some of them care," Bryce said. "I just overheard a donor telling someone your manufacturing changes lowered costs for a school district's laptop program."
He softened.
"Okay, I like that guy," he said.
"Also," she added, "your brother is out there right now trying not to blow up his life for love. The least you can do is smile at some donors so he can rant to you later without you being cranky."
He snorted.
"You're scary when you're right," he said.
She nudged him toward the microphone.
"Go," she said. "Do the speech. Then we'll stand in the corner and make fun of people's shoes."
He went up.
Cleared his throat.
Looked out at the crowd.
"Hi," he said into the mic. "I'm Nox Mosby. I started Nyx Co when I was a bored teenager who thought it was unfair that only rich people got decent tech."
Some people laughed politely.
He shrugged.
"Tonight, we're supposed to talk about giving back," he continued. "So here's my version: We built something. It made more money than I'll ever know what to do with. The only way this doesn't rot me from the inside out is if that money goes somewhere besides my ego."
Bryce raised her glass, proud.
"So," Nox said, "we fund scholarships. We cut margins. We make it harder to mark up a laptop 400% just because you put a fruit sticker on it."
A ripple of real laughter.
"And we sponsor nights like this," he finished. "Where we all dress pretty and pretend we're not terrified of the future. Thank you for being here. Please drink the fancy champagne and, if you can, write checks that hurt just a little. If it doesn't sting, you're not actually giving anything up."
He stepped away.
Applause.
He rejoined Bryce.
"Well?" he asked.
"You just told a roomful of millionaires they don't give enough," she said. "It was weirdly hot."
He smiled.
"Think he's going to do it?" she asked a minute later.
"Who?" Nox said, even though he knew.
"Ted," she said. "You think he's going to get on that plane?"
He watched an old couple slow dancing in the corner.
"I think he's going to want to," Nox said. "More than anything. And I think if he does it, he'll be miserable for reasons that have nothing to do with her."
"And if he doesn't?" she asked.
"He'll be miserable for a while," he said. "But he'll still be him. And he'll have a chance to figure out if this is real without torching the rest of his life."
"You're getting good at this big-brother thing," she said.
He made a face.
"I hate that for me," he said.
---
Back in the bakery, the conversation had slowed into quieter territory.
"So," I said, "when do you actually… leave?"
"End of the week," she said. "Flight's on Sunday."
I swallowed.
"Can I… take you to the airport?" I asked.
She thought.
"If you're sure that won't… wreck you," she said. "I don't want your last memory of us, if it goes badly, to be me walking away while you stand there dramatic."
"Already have that tape," I said. "Might as well upgrade to a better goodbye."
She smiled sadly.
"Okay," she said. "Airport it is."
We fell into silence again.
Candles burned low.
The bakery hummed softly.
"Hey," she said quietly. "You know… you could turn this into a big romantic speech."
"I could," I admitted. "I'm very good at them. I have… monologues."
"I know," she said. "I've heard some. They're impressive. And exhausting."
I laughed.
"So you don't want one?" I asked, half-teasing.
She thought.
"No," she said. "Not tonight. Tonight I just want… this. You. Here. Eating questionable lo mein and helping me close up my first real Valentine's rush."
I looked at her.
At the flour on her wrist.
The faint red mark where an oven tray had nicked her.
The tired determination in her eyes.
"Okay," I said. "No speech. Just this."
Instead of talking, I got up and started cleaning.
Wiping counters.
Stacking trays.
Turning off ovens at her nod.
Not romantic.
Not cinematic.
Just… present.
And honestly?
That felt bigger than anything I could've said.
---
Sunday came too fast.
Airports always smell like bad coffee and unfinished stories.
We stood by the security line at JFK, her suitcase at her side, boarding pass in her hand.
She wore jeans, boots, a simple jacket.
Nothing dramatic.
Just a girl going to work.
"You sure?" I asked for the thousandth time. "Six months. No last-minute Mosby impulses. No dramatic final shift at the gate?"
She smiled.
"Very sure," she said. "If you sprint onto this plane, I'm kicking you off. Gently. With love."
My throat was tight.
"So this is… 'see you later,' not 'goodbye,'" I said.
"Exactly," she said.
"No promises we can't keep," I added.
"Exactly," she repeated.
We stood there.
People shuffled around us.
A kid cried.
Someone's boarding group was called.
"Okay, but can I say one semi-grand thing?" I asked. "Just one?"
She sighed.
"Fine," she said. "One. No Latin. No flash mobs."
I took a breath.
"You're not… a chapter," I said. "You're not a 'lesson' or a 'stepping stone' or any of that crap people say when they're trying to make heartbreak sound poetic. You're… one of the real ones. However this goes, you're always going to be… important."
Her eyes glistened.
"Okay," she said hoarsely. "That was… actually good. You get one more sentence."
"I'm really glad I broke the rule," I said.
She laughed wetly.
"Me too," she said.
We hugged.
Long.
Desperate.
Not sticky or clingy.
Just… full.
"I love you," slipped right into my mouth and sat there on my tongue.
But I didn't say it.
Not because it wasn't true.
Because saying it at that moment would've made it about me needing reassurance, not about us.
She pulled back first.
"Text me when you get home?" she said.
"Only if you text when you land," I replied.
"Deal," she said.
They called her group.
She stepped back.
"Ted?" she said.
"Yeah?" I asked.
"Six months," she said. "We owe ourselves at least that much effort."
"Six months," I echoed.
Then she did this tiny, ridiculous little salute with two fingers.
Turned.
And walked toward security.
---
Kids, as I watched her go, my legs practically hummed with the urge to run after her.
To shout, "Wait! I changed my mind! I'll come with you!"
To pitch myself into the montage.
I didn't.
I stood there.
Heart pounding.
Hands shaking.
Letting her walk through the metal detector and out of sight.
And for the first time in my life, I did the honestly terrifying, radically boring thing.
I stayed.
I went home.
I sat on the couch with my friends.
Lily tucked her feet under herself and watched me carefully.
Marshall put a beer in my hand.
Robin sat closer than usual, silent support.
Barney said, "So, did you join the Mile High Club?" and got a cushion to the face from three directions at once.
Nox watched me like he was checking for fractures.
"Well?" he asked quietly when the others got distracted arguing about the best kind of pizza.
"Well what?" I said.
"You regret not going?" he asked.
I thought about jet lag and strange ovens.
About potential resentment and lost jobs.
About her in some German kitchen, learning a life that had space for me… or didn't.
"Yes," I said honestly. "And no."
He nodded once.
"Then you probably picked the right kind of pain," he said.
"The right kind?" I repeated.
"The kind that comes with possibility," he said. "Not the kind that comes from lighting yourself on fire for a story."
I looked at my phone.
No text yet.
"Think we'll make it?" I asked.
He shrugged.
"No idea," he said. "But at least now you'll find out for real. Not in the version where you chased after her and then spent the next five years pretending everything was perfect because you gave up everything to be there."
I leaned back.
Watched my friends bicker about anchovies.
Felt the empty space beside me where she'd sat the week before.
And realized something:
Staying isn't always about being scared.
Sometimes, it's about being brave enough to live with uncertainty.
To love someone and keep your own life.
To let time answer some of the questions you're too honest to fake.
---
Kids, I won't lie: the next few months were hard.
Time zones.
Emails.
Missed calls.
Late-night video chats.
The slow realization that love isn't just about drumroll moments and airport scenes.
It's about the hard, quiet days in between.
But that's getting ahead of the story.
For now, remember this:
On Valentine's Day, I didn't get the big, sweeping romantic gesture I'd always pictured.
I got takeout in a closed bakery, bad lighting, and a real conversation.
No fireworks.
No swelling soundtrack.
Just two people, choosing the messy truth over the easy lie.
And in its own way?
That was the most romantic thing I'd ever done.