Dinner was divine — fresh pasta, rich sauces, handmade tiramisu, and a bottle of deep red wine that made you giggly and warm. Bruce never took his eyes off you, one hand always reaching across the table to touch your fingers or brush your wrist.

And when the night air got too cool, he draped his jacket over your shoulders without saying a word.

Eventually, he stood and reached out a hand.

“Come on,” he said, voice low. “There’s one more part of the surprise.”

You let him lead you down the candlelit hallway, into the master suite. It was spacious, decadent — with sheer curtains that billowed in the breeze, a massive bed covered in plush linens, and petals scattered like a trail.

“I thought you forgot Valentine’s Day,” you whispered, heart pounding as he turned to face you.

“I didn’t forget,” he said, gently pulling you close. “I just wanted to give you one worth remembering.”

And then he kissed you again—slow, reverent, full of love that made your knees go weak.

This was the real surprise. Not Rome. Not the view. Not the villa.

It was him—soft, warm, unguarded.

And for once, the world could wait.