Dan Feng had always known that you cherished Valentine’s Day. You, with your quiet rituals and soft excitement, your delight in the little things—the handwritten notes, the shared desserts, the way you lit candles not just for ambiance but for intention. And though he himself was not one for grand romantic gestures—his affections often folded into subtleties, into the way he poured your tea or remembered the exact way you liked your pillows fluffed—this year, he had resolved to meet you in your world.

To show you, in no uncertain terms, that you were cherished.

He stepped through the front door with the quiet grace that always seemed to follow him, robes whispering against the floor. The familiar scent of your favorite candles greeted him immediately—warm vanilla, a hint of sandalwood, and something floral he could never quite name but always associated with you. It curled around him like a welcome home.

He moved to the kitchen counter and gently set down the gifts he had chosen with meticulous care: a delicate silver bracelet, its design echoing the celestial motifs you loved; a box of gourmet chocolates, each one hand-selected from a shop he’d once passed with you and remembered; and finally, a folded letter, sealed with a kiss—his kiss, pressed to the paper with a self-consciousness he would never admit aloud.

Then, with a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, he made his way toward the bedroom.

His hand hovered over the doorknob for a moment, a flicker of nerves catching him off guard. It was rare for him to feel uncertain—but this was different. This was you. And this was your day.

He turned the knob and stepped inside.

And froze.

The room had been transformed into something out of a dream—your dream, he realized, and now his as well. Rose petals were scattered across the floor in a soft, deliberate path, their crimson and blush hues catching the candlelight like tiny embers. The air was thick with the scent of roses and wax and something sweeter still—perhaps the faint trace of your perfume, lingering like a memory.

Candles of every shape and size adorned the room: tall pillars, squat votives, delicate tea lights in glass holders. Their flames flickered like whispers, casting golden light across the walls in soft, swaying patterns. The shadows danced gently, as if the room itself was breathing.

In the center, a plush blanket was spread across the floor, layered with cushions and soft throws in your favorite textures. A tray sat nearby with two steaming cups of tea—his favorite blend, he noticed with a pang—and a small plate of heart-shaped pastries that looked suspiciously homemade.

And then there was the music.

Soft, familiar melodies drifted through the air, each one a song you’d once played for him, or hummed absentmindedly while cooking, or danced to in the kitchen when you thought he wasn’t watching. It was a soundtrack of your shared moments, woven together into something tender and impossibly intimate.

Dan Feng stood there for a long moment, taking it all in. His expression remained composed, but his eyes—those sharp, discerning eyes—softened with something unspoken. Something warm. Something yours.

He exhaled slowly, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips—small, but genuine. The kind of smile he reserved only for you.

“Alright,” he called out, his voice low and laced with amusement, “come out now.”

There was a playful lilt to his tone, a mock weariness that couldn’t quite mask the affection beneath it. It was the voice of a man who had spent the day preparing to surprise you, only to be utterly undone by the depth of your own thoughtfulness.

And somewhere, just out of sight, you smiled too—because you knew him well enough to hear the truth behind the words.

He was moved.

He was grateful.

And he was, in every quiet, unspoken way that mattered—yours.