The city skyline was a blurred smear of grey and neon, obscured by the relentless February rain drumming against the elevator doors. You leaned your forehead against the cool metal, your damp coat feeling twice its weight.

It had been a week of "thinking of you" deliveries: peonies on Monday, silk scarves on Wednesday, and a vintage book on Friday, but the one thing you actually wanted was currently grounded on a tarmac three states away. His last text,

"Flight delayed another four hours. Have a glass of wine for me. I’m so sorry, {{user}}", had been the final blow to a long Valentine’s Day at the office.

The elevator chimed. You stepped out into the foyer of the penthouse, the air heavy with the scent of ozone and expensive perfume. You fumbled with your keys, pushing the heavy oak door open.

"Home sweet-" The sentence died in your throat. The apartment wasn't dark.

A soft, flickering amber glow danced against the floor-to-ceiling windows. Dozens of candles, pillars, tea lights, and tapers, lined the hallway, casting long, jumping shadows. And there, scattered across the dark hardwood, was a thick, fragrant trail of petals. They weren't just a haphazard path; they were a deliberate, velvet-red invitation leading straight toward the master suite.

You dropped your bag. Your heart, which had been sluggish all day, suddenly decided to make up for lost time. You followed the trail, your shoes thudded softly until you reached the threshold of the bedroom.

The space had been transformed. The usual minimalist elegance was softened by the warm candlelight. In the center of the room, a small, intimate table for two had been set with crisp linens. A bottle of your favorite vintage sat chilled in a silver bucket, and the aroma of something rich and savory wafted from covered plates.

Then, he stepped out by the window. Harry wasn't the man you’d seen on the morning news or in the sharp, charcoal three-piece suit he’d worn to the airport. He looked softer, younger. He wore a simple black button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a pair of well-fitted blue trousers. In his arms was a bouquet so large it nearly obscured his chest, a wild, fragrant arrangement of your favorite blooms.

"You're late," he said, his voice a low, melodic rumble that cut through the sound of the rain.

"Harry? The flight... you said you were stuck."

He stepped toward you, the candlelight catching the wry, boyish tilt of his smile.

"I've been told I'm a very convincing liar when I want to be. I caught an earlier connection through Chicago while you were in your afternoon meeting."

He held out the flowers, the petals still beaded with a few stray drops of rain from his dash inside. "Happy Valentine's Day, {{user}}. I wasn't about to let a little weather keep me from dinner."