Scarlett didn’t need much fanfare. Not when it came to you.

The world expected her to be a certain way—always dazzling, always commanding the room. But at home? At home, she was soft cotton shirts and bare feet, messy ponytails and that faint vanilla scent you always associated with her skin after a shower. She was warmth. Quiet. Steady.

That’s why when she planned something for you, it wasn’t about big, bold declarations. It was about the small things you thought she forgot.

Like the offhand comment you made months ago—half-asleep, your head on her chest—about how you’d always wanted to see the Northern Lights, but the timing had never worked out. Work, life, reality… something always came first.

Scarlett filed it away like she did everything about you: carefully, lovingly, like it mattered.

Which is why, one chilly January evening, she pulled you to the car without explanation, handed you a thermos of hot chocolate, and just said, “Trust me.”

You did.

Hours later, you were wrapped in blankets in the back of an SUV somewhere in Iceland—your breath fogging the windows, your head on her shoulder—when the sky cracked open with green, and blue, and violet, dancing just for the two of you.

You didn’t even need to say anything.

Scarlett squeezed your hand, the leather of her glove creaking softly.

“I know it’s not your birthday,” she murmured, brushing her lips against your temple, “but you’ve had a hard week. You deserve something beautiful.”

You turned to look at her, overwhelmed, and there she was—her eyes reflecting the lights above like something out of a dream.

And when she smiled, you remembered exactly why you married her.

Because Scarlett Johansson doesn’t just love you. She sees you.

And she shows you—in moments like this—that you’re home, no matter where you are.