Date Night

He didn’t know much about candles.

Didn’t grow up watching anyone set the table with cloth napkins or light scented tea lights just for the vibe.

But tonight—he tried.

He grabbed a few from the aisle at Target. Picked up a white tablecloth, even though it felt a little extra. Googled “how to sear salmon perfectly.” Played the playlist they used to listen to on long drives before life got so loud.

He wasn’t trying to impress her.

He was trying to reach her.

Because lately… she’d been quiet. Not in a bad way, just in a tired way. The kind of quiet that hides behind “I’m good” and “Don’t worry, I got it.” The kind of quiet that comes from always being the strong one.

She was still showing up, still smiling, still holding it down.

But he could tell—she was tired.

So he made a plan.

No reservations. No flashy surprises. Just them, in the crib, where she could let her guard down.

He cleaned the place top to bottom. Not just a wipe-the-counter type clean, but that deep clean. The baseboards. The junk drawer. Even folded the blankets on the couch the way she liked—edges tucked in, pillows fluffed.

He hit the grocery store like it was Game 7.

Her favorite wine? Check.

Fresh salmon? Check.

That little dessert she always says “No” to but secretly loves? Double check.

He turned on the stove and thought about how love changes over time. How, in the beginning, it’s loud—texts, kisses, surprises, and nonstop laughs. But real love? That grown-up love? It’s in the details. In doing the dishes without being asked. In knowing what kind of day she had without her saying a word.

So tonight, he did the little things.

Pulled out her chair.

Served her plate first.

Asked about her day—and actually listened.

And when she started talking?

He didn’t cut her off.

Didn’t try to fix it.

He let her speak.

He let her breathe.

They talked about everything and nothing.

Old memories. That one trip to Miami where they missed their flight but ended up finding the best food spot of their whole relationship. The first time he saw her cry. The first time she knew he was serious.

And when she laughed—really laughed—he just stared for a second.

Because damn, he missed that laugh.

They danced a little after dinner. Slow. No rhythm, just real. She had on fuzzy socks. He was barefoot. The lights were low, the wine was low, but their energy? That was full.

And before the night ended, he told her:

“I know I don’t always say it right, and sometimes I mess up…

but I see you.

I see how hard you go.

I see how you carry us when I fall short.

I see how you love—loud and quiet.

And I promise, I’m gon’ keep learning how to love you better.”

She didn’t say much. Just nodded.

Leaned into his chest.

Exhaled.

And in that moment, he knew:

It wasn’t about the candles.

It wasn’t about the playlist.

It wasn’t even about the food.

It was about the effort.

The intention.

The peace she felt being with a man who finally got it.

Because real love?

It ain’t about money.

It’s about presence.

It’s about being where your feet are.

It’s about showing up when it matters.

And tonight?

He showed up.