word count : 4.9k art credits : @/samira.lt.illustrations
Once Upon A Broken Heart Series
summary : The kingdom turns pink for Valentine’s Day, and Jacks pretends not to care. Evangeline knows better, especially when he builds her a fairytale ending that won’t fade.
tags : valentines day, valentine's day fluff, fluff, domestic fluff, domestic bliss, post-canon, canon universe, romance, soft, soft jacks, ballroom dancing, tooth-rotting fluff, no angst, romantic gestures, romantic fluff, romantic soulmates, happy ending, not beta read we die like apollo
notes : i'll keep this short and sweet, but before you read this valentines fic, there are some details you should know about !!
- at the beginning, you'll notice i incorporated a town in The Hollows. this is purely to help create the that whimsical, valentines-esque atmosphere for this fic. we don't see a valentines inspired holiday in Magnificent North, so i wanted to try and add traditions and romance for this holiday in this universe for the fic
- this is set post ACFTL — after evangeline and jacks officially get together and live their happy ever after. however, i made jacks a bit guarded in this fic when it comes to love. dont worry !! he's still absolutely in love with evangeline, he's just still a bit pessimistic when it comes to love in general (except when it comes to evangeline ofc >.<)
i truly hope you enjoy this fic <3
happy valentine's day, my angels
Magnificent North is Pink!
The Magnificent North has turned pink overnight.
Evangeline notices it the moment she pushes open the shutters of their own personal bedroom in the Hollow's Inn.
Snow drifts lazily from a pale winter sky, but it isn't the snow that steals her breath—it's the colour.
Rosey-pink banners hang from every balcony and tree along the frozen canal, fluttering like the empire itself has decided to blush. Gold-threaded ribbons wind around brass lamp posts. Even the frost tracing the cobblestone paths seems softer somehow, as if the winter season decided to be gentle for the upcoming holiday.
Down the path, confectioners are already arranging the sugared strawberries in neat pyramids and dusted with festive heart sugar sprinkles. Glass jars of candied rose petals catch the snowlight as they line shelves in sweet stands and shops. Someone's selling honeyed almonds wrapped in cute, heart-shaped paper.
Evangeline presses her hands to the window pane.
“Oh my,” she whispers.
The world looks as if it has been dipped in a romantic novel.
Behind her, the bed creeks softly.
She turns, and there he is.
Jacks sits against the carved wooden bedframe, gold-spun hair artfully disheveled, icy blue eyes soft and half-lidded from sleep. He looks like winter carved into the pretty shape of a prince. The morning light highlights his sharp cheekbones. He watches the scene past Evangeline the way he watches most things: as if he expects them to disappoint him.
“It seems it has begun,” he says dryly.
Evangeline spins back towards the window. “It's beautiful.”
“It's absurd.”
She gasps, all dramatic, scandalised and sincere. “Absurd?”
Jacks rises from the bed in languid grace, slipping into a white button up shirt and ignoring to do up the buttons, leaving his chest and defined stomach exposed. “An entire day devoted to unrealistic expectations and overpriced sweets.”
She turns slowly. “You cannot be serious.”
“I'm always serious,” he replies.
She sighs, “that's your problem.”
He moves to the balcony doors and pushes them open. A rush of cold air slips inside, brushing snowflakes across the wooden floor. He steps out, leaning against the railing as though the sight of pink-draped buildings, stalls and trees personally offends him.
From below and along the ever-so growing town that has sprung in The Hollow, laughter drifts upwards. And a pair of children race through the snow and between the trees with ribbons tied around their wrists. Somewhere, a harp begins playing something sweet and romantic and Jacks frowns.
Evangeline joins him on the balcony, her fluffy slippers crunching faintly against the frost. Her rose gold hair tumbles softly over her shoulder, catching snowflakes on the soft strands. She doesn't notice the snowflakes landing in her hair are shaped strangely before they melt into her warmth.
“It's romantic,” she insists.
“It's commercial.”
“It's hopeful.”
“It’s foolish.”
She narrows her grey eyes at him. “You are determined to be miserable.”
“I am determined to be realistic.”
She folds her arms. “Valentine’s Day is not foolish.”
“It is a celebration of people promising things they cannot possibly keep.”
“That’s not true.”
Jacks’ jaw tightens, but his voice remains smooth. “Love is dangerous on ordinary days.” His gaze drifts toward the frozen canal, distant now. “Devoting a holiday to it is just tempting fate.”
The words land heavier than he intends.
Evangeline stills.
There it is. Beneath the sarcasm, beneath the sharp edges. The shadow.
He used to be the Prince of Hearts.
Love has never been simple for him. It has always been a curse and consequence and blood on snow. Always something that demands payment in doomed ways.
But she knew very well that Jacks truly loves her from the very depths of her soul.
It just takes time to help unease that sorrow anxiety he has that's so engraved on his heart.
The wind shifts between them.
She steps closer, her voice softer now. “Not everyone sees love as a trap.”
“No,” he murmurs. “Just the ones who survive it.” She studies him. The way his fingers curl slightly against the balcony railing. The way his expression goes distant whenever he speaks about love like it’s a battlefield instead of a blessing.
“You don’t really hate it,” she says.
“I absolutely do.”
“You love me.”
“You're my only exception.”
“I think you're just afraid of it.”
His eyes snap to hers, sharp as breaking ice. “I am not afraid.”
“Then why do you look like someone just announced an impending execution?”
“Because they have. It’s called February fourteenth.”
She laughs despite herself.
He watches her when she does that, like he always does. Like he doesn’t understand how someone can look at a world that has hurt her and still find glitter in it.
Back in the town, a vendor releases a handful of pink paper petals into the air. They scatter across the frozen canal and streets, catching on wool coats and shoulders.
Evangeline inhales deeply, as if she can breathe the sweetness of sugared fruit all the way up to the balcony.
“I think it’s lovely,” she says firmly. “A day where people are brave enough to say what they feel.”
“Brave,” he echoes, skeptical.
“Yes. Brave.”
He tilts his head slightly. “And what exactly do you plan to do with all this bravery, Little Fox?”
She smiles—bright and dangerous and hopeful all at once.
“I haven’t decided yet.”
“That’s what worries me.”
She bumps her shoulder against his. “Maybe I’ll decorate the inn.”
“Don’t.”
“Or bake heart-shaped pastries.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Or-”
“If you hang pink ribbons from our door, I will remove them.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“I would.”
“You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” he says softly, almost to himself, “you’re still here.”
The wind gentles.
For a moment, neither of them speaks.
Snow falls around them. Slow, delicate, almost tender.
A flake lands on Jacks’ sleeve. Another catches on Evangeline’s lashes. If she looked closely, she might notice the faint curve at their edges, but she is too busy studying him.
“You don’t have to like Valentine’s Day,” she says quietly. “But I do.”
“I know.”
“And I’m going to celebrate it.”
His brow lifts. “Is that a threat?”
“It’s a promise.”
Something unreadable flickers in his eyes. Something almost wary.
“Just try not to start a war,” he says.
“No promises.”
She turns back toward the room, the hem of her nightgown brushing snow from the balcony floor, already glowing with plans.
Jacks remains where he is.
He tells himself the pink banners are ridiculous. That the sugared strawberries are a scam. That love is a liability—something he fights everyday to overcome that mindset.
But as he watches Evangeline disappear inside the Hollows Inn, light-footed and winter-bright and entirely unafraid.
He feels something far more dangerous than Valentine’s Day.
Hope.
And hope, something Jacks knows better than anyone, is the most treacherous thing of all.
A Rebellion of Ribbon and Raspberry Jam
Evangeline decided she does not care what Jacks says.
If the Magnificent North insists on turning pink for Valentine’s Day that's coming in a couple of days, then so will The Hollows Inn.
She begins with ribbons.
By mid-morning after her interaction with Jacks on the balcony, their chambers look as though a confectioner has declared war of love. Blush silk winds down the bedposts in soft spirals. Pale rose bows cling to drawer handles. Strands of gold-threaded ribbon drape over the mirror, catching the candlelight's warm glow.
Jacks stands in the doorway, watching her balance precariously on the edge of a chair.
“If you fall,” he says coolly, “I will not catch you.”
“You absolutely will,” she replies, stretching to secure the final knot.
He folds his arms. “I won’t.”
She wobbles on purpose.
He moves before he can stop himself.
One hand closes firmly around her waist. The other steadies the chair. She smiles down at him, entirely unrepentant.
“Aww, you’re participating!” She beams.
“I am preventing bodily injury.”
“Which is very romantic of you.”
He exhales through his nose.
She hops down, landing softly against him instead of the floor. He doesn’t release her. His fingers remain hooked at her waist, thumbs resting in the curve above her hips like they belong there.
And they do.
“You’re insufferable,” he murmurs.
“And yet,” she echoes from earlier, “you’re still here.”
His gaze flickers, briefly cornered, but he only guides her aside so he can fully view the room.
By noon, flour dusts nearly every surface in the kitchen downstairs.
Evangeline stands at the worktable, sleeves pushed up, pink hair tied back with a ribbon that matches the banners outside. She presses heart shapes into pastry with deliberate care.
Jacks leans against the counter, watching.
“I am not eating those,” he informs her.
“They’re raspberry and white chocolate.”
“I don’t like white chocolate.”
“You do.”
He doesn’t answer that.
She hums as she works. Snow drifts lazily past the window, more deliberate now. More symmetrical. Jacks notices the shape before she does.
Heart.
Heart.
Heart.
He says nothing.
Evangeline dips a finger into the bowl of glaze and tastes it thoughtfully.
“It needs more sugar,” she decides.
“You already added more sugar.”
“Yes, but it needs more.”
“Of course it does.”
She turns towards him with the spoon in hand. “Here, taste.”
“I don't-”
She presses it to his lips anyway.
He could refuse. But he doesn't.
His mouth closes around the spoon. Her eyes are wide and expectant.
“Well?”
He considers lying.
“It’s adequate.”
She beams as if he has declared it divine.
In retaliation, she swipes flour across his cheek, the mark is bright against his skin.
They both freeze.
He lifts one brow slowly.
“Oh no,” she says, backing away, laughter threatening.
He steps forward.
She tries to dart around the table, but he catches her easily, hands firm at her waist. He pins her lightly against the counter, snowlight spilling around them.
“Very bold,” he says softly.
She grins.
He doesn’t wipe the flour away immediately.
Instead, he studies her face, the flour on her fingers, the flush in her cheeks, the way her laughter hums through her.
Then, slowly, deliberately, he lifts his thumb to his cheek and wipes the flour off.
He looks at it.
And then he leans in and kisses her.
It’s not dramatic. Not urgent. Just warm.
His mouth soft against hers, tasting of sugar and berries and winter air.
Her hands slide instinctively into his hair. His fingers tighten slightly at her waist. He kisses her once more, slower, before resting his forehead briefly against hers.
“You’re getting flour all over our kitchen,” he murmurs.
“You love it.”
“I tolerate it.”
She laughs and turns back to her tarts.
He doesn’t move far.
He stands behind her now, close enough that his chest brushes her back. His chin settles lightly against her shoulder while she stirs batter for the second batch. One hand remains at her waist, thumb tracing idle patterns against her side.
He kisses her temple without thinking.
It is so habitual she barely pauses. The domesticity of it feels almost sacred.
Later, in their sitting room, Evangeline curls into his lap as though it is the most natural place in the world. She sits sideways across him, legs draped over the arm of the chair, skirts pooling like spilled silk. He adjusts automatically, one arm wrapping securely around her waist while the other rests along the chair back.
She holds a small book bound in faded rose leather.
“A collection of dramatic love poems,” she announces.
“Tragic, I assume.”
“Obviously.”
She begins to read — breathless declarations, star-crossed metaphors, promises of eternal devotion sealed beneath moonlight.
Jacks makes a thoughtful noise. “Overwritten.”
“It’s passionate.”
“It’s melodramatic.”
“Like we weren't a bit melodramatic.”
He pretends to critique each stanza, but his fingers absently twirl a strand of her hair. Over and over.
When she shifts, he tightens his hold without conscious thought. His chin rests against her shoulder now, lips brushing occasionally against the soft skin there when he speaks.
“You’re distracted,” she accuses mid-line.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
He presses a slow kiss just below her ear and she falters mid-sentence.
“That,” she says weakly, “is unfair.”
He smiles faintly against her skin.
Outside the tall windows, snow falls in unmistakable heart shapes now.
The roses in her favourite alcove, the pale blush ones she insists on keeping by the fireplace, remain impossibly fresh. Their petals never droop. Their colour never fades.
Jacks notices.
He notices everything she loves.
The way her eyes linger on pink glassware. The way she touches the ribbons when she walks past them. The way she smiles at sugared strawberries in shop windows.
He says he isn’t participating.
But the world bends anyway.
And he lets it.
A Silk Box of Roses
Twilight settles gently over the Hollows Inn, turning the snow outside the colour of diluted rosewater.
Evangeline is humming when she enters their chambers, carrying the last of the heart-shaped tarts on a small porcelain plate. The ribbons she tied that morning glow faintly in the firelight. Everything feels warm. Lived in. Sweet.
She stops.
There is a box on her vanity, which definitely does not belong there.
Small. Rectangle. Wrapped in blush silk so fine it catches the light like liquid. A thin, gold ribbon is tied around it in a neat, deliberate bow.
Evangeline lowers the plate slowly.
“Jacks.”
He is reclining in the armchair near the hearth, boots resting on the edge of the rug, a book open but clearly unread in his lap. Firelight gilds the sharp lines of his profile, catching in his hair like strands of pale gold.
“Yes, Little Fox?” he replies, without looking up.
“There’s a box.”
“How extraordinary.”
She turns to face him fully. “On my vanity.”
He flips a page lazily. “How alarming.”
“Did you put it there?”
Only then does he glance at it. His gaze skims over the silk, the ribbon, the deliberate placement.
“Perhaps you have an admirer,” he says lightly.
She gives him a look. “I live with you.”
“Tragic for any admirers.”
“Jacks.”
He closes the book with quiet finality and rests it on the arm of the chair. “If it explodes, I promise to look appropriately concerned.”
“It’s not going to explode.”
“Optimistic.”
She approaches the vanity slowly, as though the box might vanish if she moves too quickly. The silk glows softly in the candlelight, not bright, but luminous. Like it holds the morning sun inside it.
Her fingers hover over the ribbon.
Behind her, the fire crackles.
She can feel him watching now.
She unties the bow carefully. The ribbon slips loose with a whisper. She lifts the lid.
And promptly forgets how to breathe.
Roses.
Blush-pink roses nestled inside the silk lining.
But not ordinary roses.
Their petals hold a pearlescent shimmer, faint and opalescent, as though each one has been brushed with the faintest shimmer of morning light. The edges look almost translucent, spun from dawn itself. Faint golden veins trace delicately through the leaves, subtle as sunlight caught in silk.
They are impossibly perfect.
Not a bruise. Not a curl. Not a flaw.
She reaches out, her fingertips gently brushing a petal.
It’s warm.
Not warm like something left too near the fire, but warm like something alive. A gentle, steady heat that hums beneath the surface.
“They’re enchanted,” she whispers.
“Obviously,” he says.
She laughs, soft and breathless and utterly delighted.
The roses respond.
Petals unfurl further, opening with a delicate, almost audible sigh. Their colour deepens. The golden veins glow faintly brighter.
Evangeline gasps.
She smiles at them, radiant, luminous, and the roses glow in answer, light pooling softly in their centres.
When her expression falters just slightly, overwhelmed by how beautiful they are — the petals ease inward again. Not wilting.
Protective.
“You did this.” She turns slowly towards him. “Of course you did this! No one else has this much whimsy.”
“Well after you of course,” Jacks rises from the chair with unhurried grace. He crosses the room, stopping a measured distance behind her. “I may have arranged something.”
“They’re…” She searches for the right word. None feel large enough. “They’re extraordinary.”
“They’re flowers.”
“They are not just flowers.”
He watches her reflection in the mirror. The way her grey eyes shine and sparkle. The way her hands hover as though afraid to disturb something sacred.
“They respond to you,” she says softly.
“They respond to joy.”
She laughs again, and the roses bloom wider.
He does not miss the way her shoulders relax when they do.
“They won’t wilt,” he says.
She stills, her fingers remain resting against a petal. “They won’t?”.
“No.”
The word settles in the room like snowfall.
She swallows. “Ever?”
“Not unless you want them to.”
Silence stretches.
The fire shifts behind them, and outside, snow taps faintly against the glass.
She traces the golden vein in one leaf with her fingertip. “Why?”
He does not answer immediately.
When he does, his voice is different. Quieter.
“I thought you might like something that stays.”
Her chest tightens.
She looks at him through the mirror.
“Things don’t usually,” she says.
“No.”
Her reflection shows the faintest flicker of old fear, of curses and bargains and love that costs too much.
The roses soften slightly, petals drawing inward as if they feel it too.
Jacks steps closer, not touching her yet.
Just close enough that his presence is steady at her back.
“They won’t wilt,” he repeats. A pause, then softer, “I won’t either.”
The words are not dramatic. He does not dress them up in poetry. He simply says them and means them.
Her breath shudders out of her.
She closes the distance between them in two steps and wraps her arms around him. Not tentative. Certain.
He folds around her immediately, one hand sliding into her hair, the other firm at her waist, anchoring her as though she is something precious and breakable, though they both know she is anything but.
She presses her cheek to his chest. His heart beats steady beneath her lips.
“They’re beautiful,” she murmurs.
“They’re yours.”
Outside, heart-shaped snow continues to fall over the Magnificent North. And inside, the enchanted roses glow softly in the firelight.
A Question Woven in Snowlight
Night gathers quietly around the Hollows Inn, wrapping it in the kind of hush that only deep winter can manage. The ribbons Evangeline tied that morning stir faintly whenever the fire shifts, their blush silk catching the amber light in soft glimmers. Outside, snow continues to fall in steady, unhurried spirals, gathering along the balcony railings and pillowing the cobblestones below in pale silver.
The empire may be preparing for Valentine’s Day, but here in their chambers, everything feels smaller. Closer. Intimate in a way that has nothing to do with sugared fruit or pink banners.
Evangeline sits curled near the hearth, her legs folded beneath her, watching the flames bend and bloom. The enchanted roses rest upon her vanity across the room, glowing faintly, not bright enough to command attention, only enough to remind her they are there.
Jacks stands by the window, one hand braced lightly against the frame as he looks out at the falling snow. Firelight paints the sharp edge of his profile and softens it at once. He is quieter tonight. Not distant, just thoughtful in a way that feels deliberate.
She rises after a moment and crosses the room toward him. He senses her before she speaks; he always does. His shoulders shift subtly as she approaches, not defensive, simply aware.
“Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day,” she says softly.
“I know,” he replies, glancing down at her. His tone carries a faint trace of irony, but it lacks its usual bite. The cynicism has worn thinner over the course of the day, eroded by ribbons and laughter and strawberries and roses that refuse to wilt.
She hesitates, and that is what makes him turn fully toward her.
Evangeline does not often hesitate around him anymore.
The firelight paints warmth across her face, across the silver of her gaze. There is no mischief there now. No dramatic flourish. Only something gentler, almost shy.
“Will you be my Valentine?” she asks.
It is such a simple question that it might have been careless. But it is not. It carries weight precisely because it sounds so small.
Jacks goes still.
Not because he doubts her. Not because he doubts himself. They have already chosen one another. They have already survived curses and memory and blood-stained fate. She knows he is hers. He knows she is his.
But Valentines.
For someone who once kills with a kiss, the word does not sit lightly.
He remembers what love used to mean to him. Leverage, weakness, something to be weaponised. He remembers hands reaching for him with desire that turned to ruin. He remembers the cost.
To be someone’s Valentine feels dangerously soft. It feels like stepping willingly into a story that once tried to destroy him.
She notices the stillness and immediately regrets the vulnerability. “You don’t have to,” she adds quickly. “I just thought-”
“I want to,” he says at once.
And he does.
The hesitation was never about desire. It was about allowing himself to stand in something so openly tender without armour.
He reaches for her then, drawing her into him with steady certainty. One hand settles firmly at her back, fingers splayed against the curve of her waist. The other slides up into her hair, guiding her gently until her forehead rests against his chest. He lowers his chin to the crown of her head and breathes her in—sugar and firewood smoke and winter air.
She melts against him easily, as though this is the most natural place in the world. Perhaps it is.
“I’ve been yours since before you knew my name,” he says quietly.
The words are not theatrical. He doesn’t lace them with charm.
He simply tells the truth.
She stills against him.
Slowly, she lifts her face to look at him, searching for mockery, for a smirk, for the slightest edge of playfulness.
There is none.
Only sincerity, unguarded and unflinching.
“You mean that,” she whispers.
“Yes.”
He thinks of the moment she first looked at him without fear. Of the way she defied him. Of how she chose him long before it was safe to do so. He thinks of how he followed her anyway.
Her fingers slip between them, pushing aside the fabric of his shirt until she can press her palm over the scar at his chest. The mark left by magic and consequence and history. She traces it gently, reverently, as though mapping something fragile.
His breath shifts, not from pain but from memory.
“You’re not afraid?” she asks. “Of all of it? Of tomorrow?”
“I am always afraid of something,” he admits softly. “But not of belonging to you.”
Her hand remains over his heart. He remains at her back, holding her as though anchoring himself as much as her. Outside, snow continues its quiet descent, indifferent to confessions made by firelight.
He tilts her chin upward and kisses her.
It's not urgent. Not heated in the way that leaves them breathless and reckless. It is slow and deliberate, a kiss that lingers as though time has stretched just for them. His mouth moves against hers with care, committing the shape of it to memory. Her fingers curl into his shirt, and he feels the slight tremor in them, not doubt, but emotion.
When she parts her lips, he deepens the kiss gently, one hand sliding to cradle her jaw while the other remains firm at her waist. She rises slightly onto her toes without thinking, leaning into him with complete trust.
He kisses her like she is both fragile and fierce, like he knows she could survive without him, but chooses to stay anyway.
When they finally part, their foreheads rest together, breath mingling in the warm air between them.
“Tomorrow,” he says quietly, “I will be your Valentine.”
Her smile is softer than any ribbon she tied that morning.
“And the day after?” she asks, because she cannot help herself.
He brushes his thumb along her cheek, tracing the line of it as though it belongs to him. “Well, I have always been yours. It would be no different.”
Jacks kisses her again, slowly, deliberately, as though he has already decided he will be doing so for a very long time.
A Ballroom, Sugared Strawberries, A Harp, and Candied Rose Petals
Evangeline doesn’t realise he has taken her anywhere special until the corridor changes.
They have just finished clearing the last crumbs of raspberry tart from their plates. She is still laughing about the way he pretended not to like the glaze before eating two more, when he takes her hand and leads her downstairs. His grip is steady and familiar, fingers laced through hers as though they have always fit that way.
“You know, the inn is closed,” she reminds him lightly as they descend the staircase.
“I am aware.”
“Then where are we-”
“You’ll see.”
There is something almost smug in the way he says it, but softer than his usual arrogance. Anticipatory.
The corridor at the back of the inn is usually dim and practical, all wooden beams and polished floors worn smooth with years of travellers passing through. Tonight, however, candlelight spills faintly from beneath a pair of tall double doors at the end.
Evangeline slows.
“Jacks.”
He says nothing, only releases her hand long enough to push the doors open.
The ballroom beyond is empty.
Empty and transformed.
Candles line the walls in careful rows, their flames steady and golden, reflected endlessly in tall arched mirrors. The chandeliers overhead glow not with harsh brilliance but with softened light, as though filtered through dawn. Snow drifts past the high windows in slow spirals, visible against the darkened sky beyond.
In the centre of the room stands a small table laid simply: a porcelain bowl of sugared strawberries dusted in crystalline sugar; a dish of candied rose petals folded like jewels; a plate of more heart-shaped tarts she made that morning.
Nothing extravagant.
Just hers.
At the far corner of the ballroom rests a harp.
It is not being played by any visible musician, yet as the doors close behind them, a soft melody unfurls into the air, delicate and lilting notes rising like breath against glass. The music feels tailored to the moment, to the way her fingers tighten slightly around his sleeve.
She doesn’t speak at first.
She turns slowly in place, her skirt whispering against polished floors, taking in the candles, the mirrors, the hush. Her grey eyes shine in the golden light.
“You remembered,” she says.
It is not a question.
Once, she told him about the fairytale ball she had imagined as a child—though they never had a clear ending. A ballroom filled with light, where nothing dreadful waited at midnight. Where dancing meant joy.
And he listened.
Now, he steps closer, brushing a stray curl from her left eye. “You said you never had one that ended properly.”
Her throat tightens. “So you made one for me.”
“For us,” he corrects.
There are no guests. No watching courtiers. No expectations.
Just candlelight and snow and the faint sweetness of sugar in the air.
He offers his hand.
She takes it without hesitation.
He draws her into him slowly, one arm settling at her waist, the other guiding her fingers into place against his shoulder. The harp swells gently as though aware of them. Their first step is almost shy, a testing shift of weight, but the rhythm catches quickly.
They move across the empty floor as though it belongs to them.
There is no grand performance in it. No sweeping spectacle.
Just closeness.
Her cheek brushes his shoulder. His chin rests briefly in her hair. Their steps fall into an easy pattern, bodies aligned in a way that feels less like choreography and more like instinct.
At some point, she laughs softly and reaches for a sugared strawberry from the table, pressing it playfully to his lips before taking a bite herself. Sugar crystals cling to her fingertips; he catches her wrist gently and licks one away without breaking their rhythm.
They share candied rose petals between turns. He steals half a tart when she is distracted by the music. She pretends not to notice.
The harp shifts into something warmer, slower.
He draws her closer.
There are no declarations here. No dramatic vows beneath chandeliers.
Only the quiet proof that he listens. That he remembers. That the things she says in passing settle somewhere deep enough for him to build from them.
When the candles burn lower and the snow thickens beyond the windows, he guides her back upstairs without a word.
The enchanted roses wait upon her bedside table, their pearlescent petals glowing softly in the dim room. She sets a single candied rose petal beside them before slipping beneath the covers.
He joins her moments later.
Evangeline curls instinctively toward him, one hand finding his own in the dark. Their fingers thread together as though drawn by gravity. She is asleep within minutes, breath soft and even, pink hair fanned against the white of the sheets.
Jacks remains awake a little longer.
He watches the steady rise and fall of her chest. The way her hand remains wrapped securely in his. The way the enchanted roses do not dim from her vanity.
Snow continues drifting beyond the window, gentle and unthreatening and in shapes of hearts.
so I think its incredibly disrespectful to talk about other peoples literary work like this, like they put sm effort into them, it'd be so mean to list any
that being said i would 100% burn all of Colleen Hoovers books that woman can slip in shit <3
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tangentwithtanner
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romaincrisis
turnnoffyourmind
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