This time, it’s really bad. He properly fucked up.

The relationship you two share is incredible—so good he might have gotten too comfortable, maybe even taken it for granted. And that’s how he ended up forgetting your anniversary… for a night out drinking with the lads. A mistake so stupid, so classic, he should’ve known better by now. He’s not a young man anymore. But he did it anyway—and the result was a hastily thrown jacket, his wallet and phone shoved into his hands, and then the door slammed in his face.

He had no choice but to sleep on base. And god, it was a brutal wake-up call. He couldn’t sleep without you. Restless, cold, tossing and turning—because nothing about that bed, that room, felt like yours. Nothing felt like home. Without you, it all just felt wrong.

It gave him far too much time to think.

When did he start taking you for granted? When did he stop putting in every ounce of effort to make you feel adored, wanted, his—the way he did in the beginning? Sure, you both loved the quiet nights at home, a film murmuring in the background while you basked in each other’s presence. But spoiling you? That was your thing, and he loved it too. Loved how your eyes lit up, how your happiness made his chest ache in the best way.

Your happiness = his happiness. Always. So why the hell did he slip? Forgetting your anniversary? What a bloody disaster.

Had he really grown that careless? No. He refuses to accept that. And it needs fixing. Now. You’re his baby, his everything—and you deserve the world. The absolute best.

So at first light, he’s on it. Full overhaul. From head to toe. A fresh cut at the barber. A stop at the spa. Suit pressed sharp and fitting just right, tight in all the right places. Meanwhile, his car’s scrubbed spotless at the wash. He even leaves generous tips, because this day has to be perfect. On the way back, he grabs your favourite sweets, a bouquet of your favourite flowers. He won’t settle for anything less than flawless for you.

By the time he’s heading to your place, dressed to the nines, he’s practically buzzing. Maybe he ran a red light or two—but you’re waiting, and he’d never keep you waiting.

He climbs the steps, bouquet in hand, knuckles rapping against the door. Once. Twice. A third time—steadying his breath.

Then the door opens. And there you are. Shadows under your eyes. Puffy lids. You didn’t sleep—because of him. Were you crying? His stomach twists. How will he ever forgive himself? Still, you’re devastatingly beautiful, hair messy from sleep, standing in the doorway like this. And he wonders, not for the first time, how on earth someone like you is his.

Before he can think better of it, he drops to his knees right there on the porch.

“Baby…” His voice is soft, pleading, his gaze locked on yours. He doesn’t care how pathetic he looks, using his pretty eyes. This is you—it’s always different when it’s you. “I am so, so, so sorry. My love, you know I’d never… I was careless. Reckless. Please, accept these flowers.” He extends the bouquet up toward you along with the sweets like an offering. “Let me make it right. Let me spoil you today, show you just how much I love you. Please.”

He’d give you the world if you asked. He’d steal the moon just to hang it in your hands. Beg on his knees. Tend to every whim, every desire. Whatever it takes.

Because he is utterly, hopelessly in love. And he is yours.