The February evening air was cool, sharp enough that your breath fogged as you carried the last bouquet inside. You’d been working on the surprise all afternoon—sneaking in and out of Tate’s apartment with arms full of roses, coordinating with the florist who looked at you like you were either madly in love or just mad. Probably both.

Dozens of vases now lined the living room, the kitchen counter, the hallway table. Some bouquets you left tightly arranged in crystal, others you spread out like wild gardens in tall glass jars. And then, just because you couldn’t help yourself, you scattered loose petals across the hardwood floors, leading a trail from the front door straight into the living room where the biggest arrangement—over a hundred velvety red roses—waited in a single silver vase.

The place smelled like a dream: heady, rich, romantic.

By the time Tate’s key rattled in the lock, your heart was hammering like you were a teenager waiting for their crush, not her boyfriend who’d spent weeks planning this.

“Tate?” you called lightly, trying to sound casual.

The door opened, and she stepped inside, her hair still damp from rehearsal, hoodie zipped up against the cold. She was halfway through kicking off her shoes when she froze.

The trail of petals caught her eye.

She followed them slowly, her bag slipping from her shoulder, her lips parting just slightly as her gaze lifted from the floor to the flowers surrounding her. The vases, the bouquets, the endless red that seemed to bloom out of every corner.

“Oh my God…” she whispered, her voice small, almost shaky.

And then she saw you, standing beside the enormous silver vase in the living room, holding just one rose between your fingers.

Her hand flew up to her mouth. “You didn’t.”

You smiled, stepping forward and offering her the single rose. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

Her eyes were glassy when she took it, her thumb brushing gently over the petals before she looked up at you. “This is insane,” she said with a watery laugh, shaking her head as if she couldn’t believe it. “You filled my entire apartment with roses. Who even does that?”

You tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, letting your fingers linger against her cheek. “Only someone who’s completely in love with you.”

That was it. She melted against you, arms wrapping around your waist as she buried her face in your chest. You felt her shoulders shake with a quiet laugh—or maybe a quiet cry.

“I don’t even know what to say,” she mumbled into your shirt.

“Don’t say anything,” you whispered, kissing the top of her head. “Just let me love you.”

When she pulled back, her smile was radiant, the kind of smile that made every trip to the florist, every dollar spent, every petal scattered worth it. She kissed you then—soft, slow, lingering—and the roses around you seemed to lean in, filling the space with a sweetness that would linger long after Valentine’s Day ended.