#tysm again for this ask!! I hope you enjoy the festive fluff bc I couldn't help myself💕

[thee-morrigan]

Happy Valentine’s Day 💕

Your writing has always been a treat to read, but getting to follow Holland and Nate in ‘attachment theory’ has been one of my highlights of the previous year. Thank you for sharing your beautiful stories with us.

If you feel like answering (no pressure): What is something unconventional that your OC thinks is romantic? Does their LI agree?

Wishing you a lovely day filled with lots of love!

Ahhh happy Valentine’s Day to you too!! 💖🥰 This is such a lovely message, and knowing that attachment theory has been a highlight for you makes my heart so full. Thank you for reading and for being here, sweet friend!!💕

And ooooh, I love this question! Something unconventional that Holland finds romantic? Honestly, I think she has a real soft spot for being known in all the little ways—like, not just the big sweeping gestures, but when someone quietly remembers something about her, even if she never made a big deal of it. Someone handing her her coffee exactly the way she likes it without asking, or keeping track of what songs she hums when she’s distracted. Stuff like that absolutely wrecks her (though god forbid she admit it out loud lol).

As for whether Nate agrees—oh, absolutely. If anything, that’s his whole approach to love: a constant, quiet noticing. (And also like, let's be real: that man can probably find romance in anything.) It’s a language they both speak fluently, even when Holland’s still pretending not to understand it. 😌

And as my valentine to you, lovely anon, I also wrote a quick AT-verse ficlet of Holland and Nate's first v-day together, below the cut~

(no spoilers, set after the events of the main story)

sugar on the rim

February, Next Year The restaurant was crowded and warm, the low murmur of voices and clinking of silverware on plates mingling with the soft strains of violin music filtering out from the bar area and through the dining room. The lights had been dimmed, and there were candles on each table, the glow from them flickering in time with the music that seemed to grow quieter by the minute. It was, in every way, exactly the sort of place that Holland would have hated under any other circumstances.

It was a place to be seen. Somewhere you'd go with someone you wanted — or were obliged — to impress. A place for important business deals or milestone celebrations. Not the kind of restaurant anyone went to just for the hell of it, or simply because the food was good. (Even though the food had been excellent.)

And it was also, very pointedly, a place to go with a date. Which was why they were there, of course. It was Valentine's Day, after all.

Which, ordinarily, was the sort of thing that would have made Holland want to bolt, if not for the fact that Nate looked so damned pleased about the entire affair. He'd been so eager, when he'd suggested this, to make sure she knew he understood that she was, as he’d put it, "not the biggest fan of the whole production.” That he'd be just as happy to stay at home with her. But there'd been a look in his eyes that had given him away, a sort of wistful hopefulness that had made her chest ache, just a little.

She could never have denied him anything, anyway.

And so far, things hadn't been nearly as bad as she'd anticipated they'd be. In fact, it had ended up being...nice, even. She hadn't expected to have such a good time, but she had. The company had been excellent, as always, and Nate had seemed so delighted to be there, and even the little touches — the music, the candles, the wine — had somehow managed not to seem too overdone. Too much, for a night that she hadn't wanted to make anything out of in the first place.

It had all been...well, kind of perfect, really. Almost annoyingly so, if she could have summoned the slightest bit of irritation or impatience or cynicism about the whole thing.

Instead, Holland found that she couldn't even muster the desire to be cynical about the whole saccharine affair. Because she wasn't, not really. Not about this.

Not about him.

She watched the candlelight dance in his eyes, flickering as he studied her, a smile curving up the corner of his mouth.

"You're quiet," he observed. He was smiling, but his voice held a note of hesitation, something like worry or apprehension coloring the edges of his words.

He was right. She had been quiet. Maybe too quiet. She'd gotten a little lost in her thoughts, and now he was looking at her, that crease in his forehead, a little uncertainty in his eyes, like there was something on the tip of his tongue that he was a little afraid to ask.

So she offered him a reassuring smile, trying to brush away the concern in his expression, wanting to see that easy, comfortable smile of his again. "Just thinking," she said.

"Oh?" That crease in his forehead hadn't disappeared, his gaze still intent, still searching her face, a question in his eyes. "About what?"

She could have lied, she supposed. Could have said something glib or snarky, a joke or quip to try and lighten the mood. Something that would have given him an out, an opportunity to brush off the worry that she could see in his face. Something that would have let them both skirt around the question that she knew was really on his mind.

But she didn't. Instead, she took a deep breath, and looked at him, and said: "How happy I am."

She watched the candlelight flicker in his eyes, watched his smile grow slowly. Watched him relax, the tension leaving his body as his shoulders dropped and his expression softened and warmed.

"Yeah?" He sounded pleased.

A blush warmed her face. A tiny smile lifted the corner of her mouth. "Yeah," she said, letting that tiny smile spread into a full one. "Are you happy?"

"Always."

"That's a lie." But she was smiling when she said it. "And not even a good one."

He laughed, the sound rich and warm and intimate. The way the sound made her feel...

(It made her want to bury her face in her hands. It was ridiculous, how much he made her want.)

"I'm happy when I'm with you," he amended.

"Better," she said softly. "Still a little schmaltzy for my taste, but..."

He arched a brow, still smiling. "Too much?" There was a hint of concern there, an apology lingering in the subtext, ready to be said out loud if needed, the barest tinge of uncertainty and hesitation and something very, very Nate — the sense of worry over having maybe gone a step too far.

(Sweet. Nervous. And oh so achingly, profoundly endearing. Like he always was.)

And she thought: No such thing as too much, with you.

She didn't say that. Instead, she gave a small, amused shrug. "It's fine."

Nate's grin widened. "Just fine, hm?"

She lifted a shoulder again. "Eh." But her eyes were soft, her mouth quirking into another smile. "Maybe a little more than 'fine.'"

He laughed again.

(She thought she could live in the sound of his laugh.)

Nate leaned back in his chair, his expression fond, gaze warm and soft, the tension in his shoulders eased now. He seemed...contented. At ease. Happy.

"Thank you," he said.

"For?"

"For coming with me tonight. And for..." He waved a hand, gesturing vaguely. "Being here. Doing this. I know it's not your favorite holiday."

"It's fine," she said again. And then, softer, with another small shrug: "I like making you happy."

He gave her a look that was so tender and affectionate it made her chest tighten. "I am," he said quietly. "I really, really am."