A little late but here's something
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You flip the camera on before you’re even fully ready.
“Hi,” you whisper, grinning at your own reflection in the screen. “It’s Valentine’s Day. And I’m taking you with me.”
Behind you, you hear the low, familiar rumble of a truck engine idling in the driveway.
You angle the phone toward the window. “He’s outside.”
You don’t say his name yet. You don’t have to.
You step out into the cool evening air and the camera catches him leaning against the driver’s side door, all broad shoulders and quiet intensity. When he sees you, his entire face shifts. Softer. Warmer.
Rafe Cameron pushes off the truck and walks toward you like he’s been waiting all day for this exact second.
You lower the camera just enough to show him clearly.
“Hi,” you say to him, not the vlog.
“Hey,” he answers, eyes already dragging over you like he’s memorizing every detail.
He hands you the flowers first. Big, dramatic, very him. You beam, lift them to your face, then lean in and press a slow kiss to his cheek.
The camera tilts slightly as your hand slides up his chest to smooth his collar. You fix it like it’s instinct.
“Can’t have you lookin’ crooked,” you murmur.
His hand finds your waist immediately. Not possessive. Just grounding. He keeps it there even while you keep talking to the camera.
“He did good,” you tell your viewers softly. “Very handsome.”
He ducks his head like he’s embarrassed, but he doesn’t let go of you.
You slide into the passenger seat and prop the phone against the dashboard.
“Okay,” you whisper conspiratorially, leaning toward the lens. “Step one of the date.”
Rafe climbs in, shuts the door, and the world goes quiet except for the engine and the soft click of your seatbelt.
Before he can reach for the radio, you connect your phone.
“I made a playlist,” you say casually.
His eyebrow lifts. “You did?”
You nod and hit play. His favorite song fills the cab. Not yours. His.
You don’t look at the camera this time. You look at him.
His fingers flex on the steering wheel.
You reach over and lace your fingers with his free hand.
He exhales through his nose, almost like he didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath.
You keep holding it. Even when he shifts gears. Even when he turns. Your thumb rubs lazy circles against his knuckles.
“You look nervous,” you tease.
He glances at you, jaw tight, but his hand squeezes yours like he needs the contact.
You lean over and kiss his shoulder. Then his jaw. Just quick, easy affection. Like it’s nothing.
The camera catches the faint pink in his ears.
“Step two,” you murmur to the vlog, still holding his hand. “Drive with dramatic music and a hot boyfriend.”
He huffs. “You’re ridiculous.”
He doesn’t answer, but his thumb strokes the inside of your wrist the rest of the drive.
When you pull up to the restaurant, you turn the camera back to yourself.
He gets out first and comes around for you. When he opens your door, you reach for him immediately, hands sliding up his arms as you stand.
“Thank you,” you whisper, leaning in close.
Your fingers fix his collar again. Then you smooth down the front of his shirt, flattening invisible wrinkles.
He watches you like you’re doing something sacred.
“You good?” you ask softly.
You kiss his cheek again before stepping back, then hook your arm through his.
Inside, everything is warm light and soft music. You keep the vlog low and discreet now, narrating quietly.
“He made reservations,” you tell the camera. “Look at him being all romantic.”
He pulls your chair out for you. When you sit, you reach for his hand across the table instead of your menu.
He doesn’t even pretend to read his.
Your fingers trace the veins on the back of his hand. Slow. Thoughtful. Absentminded, like you’ve done it a hundred times.
You talk to the camera about the drinks, about how pretty the place is, about how he refused to tell you where you were going.
But every time you stop speaking, your hand is on him.
Your knee pressed against his under the table.
When the waiter brings dessert, you lean over and kiss him full on the cheek just because.
“For planning everything,” you say softly.
His jaw flexes like he’s overwhelmed by it.
After dinner, you step outside and flip the camera toward him again.
“Okay,” you say, excitement bubbling. “Gift exchange.”
He hands you a small box first. Nervous now for real.
You don’t open it immediately.
Instead, you step into him.
Your arms wrap around his waist and you squeeze.
You bury your face against his chest for a second before pulling back.
“Okay,” you laugh. “Sorry.”
You open it and your eyes go wide. You gasp, then throw your arms around his neck.
“It’s perfect,” you tell him against his skin.
You kiss him once. Twice. Three times. Soft, grateful, lingering kisses that leave him a little dazed.
Then you step back and reach into your purse.
You hand him a smaller box. He looks confused.
Inside is something simple. Personal. Thought out. Something that says you pay attention.
He looks up at you slowly.
“You remembered,” he says quietly.
You step closer again, hands sliding up to cup his face this time.
You kiss him gently, slow and steady, like you have nowhere else to be.
When you pull back, you keep your forehead against his.
The camera is still rolling, but neither of you are looking at it anymore.
“I love you,” you whisper.
His hands come up to your hips, firm and warm, anchoring you there.
You reach back blindly and turn the camera toward yourself one last time, your cheek still pressed against his shoulder.
“Best Valentine’s ever,” you tell it softly.
And when you stop recording, you don’t move away from him.
You stay exactly where you are, wrapped around him, hands tracing lazy patterns against his back while he holds you like he’s never letting go.
