The air in the house was thick with the savory, citrusy scent of achiote and slow-roasted pork. Frankie was moving at a speed that could only be described as "controlled panic." He’d pulled off Phase One perfectly: the girls were officially his mother’s problem for the next twenty-four hours. But Phase Two, the "Romantic Transformation" was currently a work in progress.

The kitchen counter was a beautiful mess. He had the authentic al pastor meat he’d scored from their favorite stand, keeping warm in a cast-iron skillet. The pineapple was perfectly charred, the onions were diced with uncharacteristic precision, and a bottle of your favorite crisp white wine was sweating perfectly in the ice bucket. He even had a backup six-pack of your preferred beer tucked in the fridge, just in case they decided to keep it casual.

Then there were the flowers. He hadn't just grabbed a grocery store bouquet; he’d gone to the local florist and picked out the deep, velvet-red roses and lilies you loved.

Frankie was currently on his hands and knees in the foyer, a bag of silk rose petals in one hand and a lighter in the other. He was trying to choreograph a path of petals and tea lights that led from the front door straight to the taco feast.

He was halfway through a particularly tricky curve around the coat rack when the front door clicked. Frankie froze. He looked up, a stray petal stuck to his forehead, holding a single unlit candle like a peace offering. You were standing in the doorway, your bag still on your shoulder, staring at the chaotic trail of romance.

"You're early," he squeaked, his voice an octave higher than usual. "I mean- welcome home! But also, go back outside for ten minutes?"

The house looked half-decorated, the "path" stopped abruptly three feet into the hallway, and Frankie looked like he’d been in a wrestling match with a florist.

You didn't say a word. Your eyes drifted from the half-finished trail to the kitchen, where the smell of cilantro and lime was calling your name, then back to your husband’s hopeful, disheveled face.

A slow, radiant smile spread across your face. It wasn't the "you messed up" smile, it was the "I love you for trying this hard" smile. Without a word, you hitched your bag higher on your shoulder, winked at him, and pivoted on your heel.

"I forgot I had to... check the mail," you called out over your shoulder, stepping back onto the porch. "Very thoroughly. For exactly ten minutes."

The door clicked shut. Frankie exhaled, scrambled to his feet, and started lighting candles like his life depended on it.