The White Manor in Paris was quiet that evening, wrapped in the deep stillness of February nights. Outside, the city buzzed with its usual lights and distant car sounds, but within the manor's grand living room, the world seemed to shrink to the soft glow of firelight and the gentle rustle of turning pages.
Emma Bloom sat comfortably on a velvet settee, a folded letter in her hand. The paper bore Eira's precise handwriting, and as she smoothed it across her lap, a smile tugged at her lips. Her heart had swelled as she read it once already in private, but tonight she wished to share it aloud.
Across from her, Isabella Voclain reclined in an armchair, posture regal as always. A faint candlelight shimmered against her pale features, highlighting the sharp elegance of her jaw and the thoughtful furrow in her brow. Despite her reserved demeanor, there was a softness about her tonight—an openness she rarely allowed others to see.
Emma lifted the letter. "It seems our little lady has written us something quite extraordinary." Her tone carried both amusement and pride.
Isabella arched an eyebrow. "Extraordinary? With Eira, that could mean almost anything."
Emma chuckled, leaning forward so the light caught her auburn hair. "Listen."
She began to read, her voice lilting with fondness:
'My dearest Emma,
Tonight I have something important to confess. Fleur and I… we are no longer just friends. On this Valentine's Day, we confessed to each other and shared our love. It feels strange to write it so openly, but I wanted you to know. She makes me laugh, she makes me feel light, and when I kiss her—yes, we kissed—it feels as though my world finally fits into place. You once told me, Emma, that love should never be hidden, even if the world doesn't understand. So I am telling you, with no shame, that Fleur and I are together.'
Emma paused, glancing at Isabella. The woman's lips had parted slightly, eyes softening as she listened.
Emma continued:
'Students already whisper and some complain, especially the boys who admire Fleur. But I don't care. She chose me, and I chose her. When you read this, please don't laugh at me for sounding foolish. I am happy. Truly, I am.
With all my heart,
Eira.'
The silence afterward was filled only by the crackle of the fireplace. Emma lowered the letter slowly, her chest warm with affection. "She's in love," she murmured. "Can you believe it? Our little lady, writing about kisses and confessions as though she's grown overnight."
Isabella smiled faintly, though her usual composure lingered. "It seems she inherited more of her mother's passion than we realized. Maria would have approved of her honesty."
Emma leaned back, her expression glowing with tenderness. "I'm so happy for her. So lucky she found someone who truly loves her." She hesitated, her eyes drifting toward Isabella's. "Do you know what this reminds me of?"
Isabella tilted her head, curious. "What?"
Emma's fingers brushed against the letter, her heart quickening. "It reminds me that I, too, have something to confess."
The room seemed to shift, as though the flames themselves leaned closer to listen. Isabella's brows furrowed gently. "Emma?"
Emma exhaled slowly, her courage threading itself together. "When I read Eira's words, I thought… if she can be brave enough to love openly, then so can I. The truth is…" She leaned forward, her gaze steady despite the racing of her heart. "The first time I saw you, Isabella, I felt something. Something that hasn't faded, not even for a day. I like you. More than I should have, perhaps. And if you're comfortable with it—if you're not frightened by the idea—I would like to be with you."
A stunned quiet filled the room. Isabella's fingers curled against the arm of her chair, her breath caught between disbelief and something softer, more vulnerable.
"Emma…" she began, her voice almost trembling. "You—you can't mean that. We've known each other scarcely a year. It's not enough time, not for something like this."
Emma rose slowly from the settee, crossing the small space between them. Her steps were deliberate, steady, every movement laced with intent. She stopped just in front of Isabella's chair, looking down at her with warmth instead of demand. "Time doesn't measure love," Emma said softly. "Connection does. And from the first moment, I felt it."
Isabella looked away, her chest rising and falling quickly. "I… I don't know if it would work between us. I've lost too many already, Emma. To care for someone again—it terrifies me. What if I lose you too?"
Emma crouched slightly, bringing herself level with Isabella's eyes. Her hands, gentle yet firm, reached to cover Isabella's trembling ones. "You don't have to be afraid. Not with me. I won't run from you, I won't vanish. I know loss frightens you, but love is worth the risk. Isn't it?"
The firelight painted Isabella's face in shifting gold and shadow, and for a long moment she said nothing. But in her silence, her eyes betrayed her—they softened, glistened, revealed the truth she tried to bury.
Emma, sensing the crack in her walls, smiled tenderly. "So tell me, Isabella Voclain—on this Valentine's night, will you let me be yours?"
The question hung between them like a spell. Isabella's lips parted, her breath shaking as she tried to form an answer. "Emma… I—"
Before the hesitation could grow too strong, Emma leaned closer, her voice a whisper brushing against her ear. "You don't need to find the perfect words. Just let yourself feel. Do you want me?"
The vulnerability in Isabella's eyes melted into something deeper, almost desperate. And though her voice was faint, it carried all the weight of her heart. "Yes."
Emma's smile bloomed, radiant and unrestrained. "Then that's enough."
She leaned in and kissed her.
It was soft at first, hesitant—the taste of uncertainty mingling with the warmth of long-suppressed desire. Isabella stiffened for a heartbeat, but then, slowly, she yielded, her lips moving against Emma's with a trembling sweetness.
When they pulled back, their foreheads lingered close, breaths mingling. Isabella let out a nervous laugh, covering her lips with her hand. "I can't believe we just did that."
Emma chuckled, eyes sparkling. "Believe it. And get used to it, because I plan on kissing you again."
And she did—pressing her lips once more against Isabella's, this time with more certainty, more heat. Isabella gasped softly into the kiss, then, to her own surprise, began to laugh as well. The sound was contagious, spilling from both women as their lips parted and met again, laughter weaving between kisses.
The grand, cold living room of the White Manor transformed into something alive, something intimate. Two women—one bold, one reserved—had crossed the threshold into something new.
By the end, as they sank together into quiet laughter and tender embraces, Isabella no longer looked away. She gazed directly at Emma, her cheeks flushed, her eyes glowing with an affection she could no longer hide.
And when Emma leaned in for the final kiss of the night, Isabella welcomed it, her lips warm and sure, sealing the beginning of their own love story.