Morning light spilled through the curtains in soft, golden streaks. It was 10 a.m. on Valentine’s Day—your Valentine’s Day. Two years ago, you and Simon Riley had made it official on this exact date. You’d expected to wake up to something. A quiet kiss against your temple. A low, gravelly “happy anniversary.” Maybe even the faint smell of coffee brewing downstairs. Instead, the other side of the bed was cold. He wasn’t there.

You tried not to let it bother you at first. Simon wasn’t flashy—never had been—but he was thoughtful. Intentional. The kind of man who noticed when you changed your perfume or when you were quieter than usual. So when the morning passed without a single mention of the date, confusion slowly twisted into something heavier.

Maybe… he forgot.

That thought hurt more than expected.

By late morning, you decided if he wasn’t going to make today special, you would. You took your time getting ready — slow and deliberate. You did your hair perfectly, picked an outfit that made you feel confident and undeniably beautiful. If this day was going to matter because you made it matter.

At noon, you met your friends. They immediately picked up on your mood, but they didn’t let you wallow. They dragged you from place to place, filling the hours with laughter, coffee runs, and pictures in the winter sunlight. You stayed out until four. Then five. Then six, after they insisted you stop checking your phone.

By the time you finally headed home, the sky had turned a soft shade of violet, the air cool against your skin. You unlocked the door, expecting darkness and silence.

Instead, your breath caught.

A trail of red spider lily petals—your favorite flower—stretched from the entryway down the hall. Carefully placed. Intentional. Your heart began to pound. You followed them slowly, almost afraid to disturb the pattern, until they led you into the dining room.

The lights were dimmed, candles flickering warmly against the walls. The table was set beautifully — plates arranged perfectly, glasses polished, dinner plated and still steaming. Four gifts sat neatly stacked beside your chair, wrapped in dark paper with clean, sharp edges.

And at the end of the table stood Simon. He held a bouquet filled with all your favorite flowers — spider lilies woven carefully among them — and for once, he didn’t look composed and unreadable. He looked nervous.

“You’re late,” he said quietly, though there wasn’t a hint of irritation in his voice. Only relief.

You blinked at him. “You didn’t say anything this morning.”

“That was the point,” he admitted, stepping closer. “Wanted you to think I’d forgotten.”

Your jaw dropped slightly. “You what?”

A faint, almost sheepish exhale left him. “So it’d surprise you properly.”

You stared at him for a second before a shaky laugh escaped you. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Probably,” he muttered, holding out the bouquet. “But not about you.”

You took the flowers, fingers brushing his gloves, and felt the last bit of hurt from earlier dissolve completely.

He pulled your chair out for you — a rare, deliberate gesture — then reached into his pocket. From it, he drew a small velvet box. Your heart skipped. Inside wasn’t a ring, but a delicate silver necklace. Hanging from it was a spider lily charm, crafted with quiet precision.

“You said once they mean rebirth,” he murmured, his voice lower now. “New beginnings. Two years ago, you gave me one.”

Your eyes burned.

“I’m not good with big speeches,” he continued, meeting your gaze steadily. “But I know what I want. And I still want you. Every year. Every version.”

You stepped forward instead, wrapping your arms around him tightly, pressing your face into his chest. “You really let me think you forgot,” you mumbled.

His arms came around you, solid and warm. “Worth it?”

You pulled back just enough to look at him. “Annoyingly… yes.”

A rare, soft smile touched his lips before he leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead.

“Happy anniversary, love.”