Valentine’s Day had never really been Charlie’s thing.

He wasn’t the type for grand speeches or enchanted confetti raining from the ceiling. He’d rather wrestle a dragon than recite poetry in front of a crowd.

So when he tells you to “just trust him” and leads you out past the lights of the reserve, fingers laced tightly with yours, you expect something simple. Maybe a small fire. Maybe just him stealing you away from the others.

You don’t expect this.

Steam curls into the cold night air. A hot tub sits on the edge of the hill, water shimmering beneath a blanket of stars. Rose petals drift across the surface, soft red against silver reflections. A small table waits beside it, champagne chilling in a bucket of ice, chocolate-covered strawberries arranged carefully on a plate like he spent far too long trying to make them look perfect.

You blink at it. Then at him.

“Charlie…”

He shrugs one shoulder, suddenly looking almost shy. “What? I can get fancy sometimes too.”

Your laugh is soft, breath fogging in the winter air.

He steps closer, brushing his knuckles down your arm. “You deserve something nice.”

There’s no teasing in his voice. No bravado. Just warmth.

He helps you out of your coat first, slow and careful, like you’re made of spun glass. His hands are gentle, reverent. When you step toward the water, he keeps one steadying palm at your waist, the other clasping your hand as you ease down into the heat.

The warmth wraps around you instantly, stealing the chill from your skin. A quiet sigh escapes your lips.

Charlie follows, sliding in behind you. The water shifts, petals drifting against your shoulders. He moves closer without hesitation, arms circling your waist beneath the surface, pulling you back against his chest.

Solid. Safe. Warm.

You both go still for a moment, just breathing.

He rests his chin lightly against your shoulder.

“This is nice,” he says, like it’s nothing. Like he didn’t plan this.

But the way he holds you tells a different story.

His arms tighten just slightly around your waist. Protective. Grounded.

He turns his head and presses a slow, warm kiss to your temple.

You tilt your head back against him, fingers tracing lazy circles over his forearm beneath the water.

He doesn’t look at the stars for long.

He looks at you.

And there’s something in his expression, steady, intense, almost awed, like he’s memorizing the way the starlight catches in your eyes. Like he can’t quite believe you’re here with him.

Like you’re the only thing in the world that matters.

His thumb brushes gently over your hip under the water, absent-minded and affectionate.

“Could stay like this all night,” he murmurs.

And the way he says it makes it clear he would.