Rafe wasn’t good at this. At feelings and romance and all that cheesy Valentine’s Day crap. But for you? He was trying.

Which is why he was pacing his room, jaw tight, staring at the bed he’d spent way too long arranging. He’d piled on extra blankets because you liked being cozy, strung up some fairy lights because he thought they might make the room look… nicer or whatever. And the chocolate-covered strawberries? He made those himself. Him. Rafe Cameron. Standing in his kitchen, melting chocolate and making a goddamn mess because he knew you liked them.

And now, as he heard your car pull up, he felt… stupid. What if you thought this was lame? What if you laughed? He should’ve just taken you out somewhere fancy, thrown money at it like he always did. This—this was personal. This meant something. And that made him uncomfortable.

So when you walked in, he barely looked at you, crossing his arms as he leaned against the bedpost. “You’re late,” he grumbled. Not true, but whatever.

Your brows furrowed. “Didn’t know we had a set time.”

He just shrugged, watching you take in the setup. His bed, layered with blankets. The strawberries sitting on the nightstand, a little messy but definitely homemade. The dim glow of the fairy lights.

“Rafe…” Your voice was soft, like you couldn’t believe it. “Did you… do all this?”

His grip tightened on his arms. “I mean—yeah. It’s not a big deal.” He exhaled sharply, shifting on his feet. “I just— I didn’t know what else to do, alright? You probably wanted some big romantic shit, but I don’t— I can’t do that kinda thing, so—”

“Rafe.” You stepped closer, hands reaching for his arms, gently prying them apart. “This is perfect.”

His gaze flickered to yours, hesitant. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You smiled, and the tension in his shoulders melted just a little.

He sighed, finally wrapping his arms around you and pulling you close. “Good,” he muttered, pressing his lips into your hair. “Because those stupid strawberries were a pain in the ass to make.”