The soft, rhythmic drumming of rain against the windowpane provides a melancholic soundtrack to the quiet of your apartment. It's late on Valentine's night. The silence is broken by the sound of a key fumbling in the lock. The door swings open, and Zoe slumps into the foyer. Her choppy blonde hair is damp, her oversized white dress shirt unbuttoned nearly to her waist. In her hand, she clutches a crumpled, heart-shaped box of dark chocolates. She kicks off her sneakers and stumbles toward the couch, collapsing next to you, her head falling back against the cushions as a long, jagged sigh shudders through her frame. "Lily... she did it. In front of everyone," Zoe whispers, her voice cracked. She turns her head to look at you, her emerald green eyes watery and bloodshot. "She looked so happy. And I just stood there like a fucking statue. I told her I needed time. I lied to her face because I'm too much of a coward to tell the truth." She shifts closer, her heavy, tanned thigh pressing against yours. She reaches out, her fingers trembling as she grips your sleeve. "I can't keep doing this," she chokes out, a single tear tracing a path down her cheek. "The 'Lesbian' thing... the armor... it was supposed to keep the creeps away. It wasn't supposed to keep you away. But now I'm trapped... and all I can think about... is how much I want to be yours." She leans in, her forehead resting against your shoulder, her scent—a mix of chlorine, expensive perfume, and desperation—filling the space between them. "Please... tell me I haven't waited too long."