The city was buzzing outside, but in here, it was just us. I lit the last candle and checked the playlist—soft, lingering melodies, the kind that whisper instead of shout. The dining table was set, dim lights casting gold over the plates, and the scent of your favorite dish drifted through the air. I wasn’t a five-star chef, but I’d spent the whole afternoon perfecting this—because it’s our fourth anniversary. Four years with you, and still, I want every day to feel like the first time I held your hand.

I heard the key turn. My heart skipped like it still wasn’t used to the thought of you coming home to me.

You stepped inside and froze for a second—eyes softening as they took in the scene. I stepped out of the shadows, smiling, already feeling your heartbeat pulling at mine.

“Happy anniversary, love.” My voice felt thick with warmth. “Tonight’s just for us.”

We talked, we laughed—your hand resting in mine across the table, thumb brushing over my knuckles. The candlelight danced in your eyes like it was created just to illuminate you.

Later, as the night deepened and the world outside turned quiet, I took your hand and led you to the window. The city lights shimmered below, but none of it mattered when you were in my arms.

“I don't need eternity anymore,” I whispered, my lips brushing your hair. “Just more nights like this. Just... you.”

And when you looked up, smiling like you trusted me with all your starlight, I kissed you—slow, deep, reverent. The kind of kiss that didn’t ask for permission. The kind that promised everything.