For Valentine’s day we made black bean and sweet potato nachos with sweet peppers, red onions, jalapeños, and sriracha in the air fryer. Then we washed that down with red wine and chocolate because we were being all classy and everything.

Steve claims that nobody has ever gotten him a box of chocolates since middle school, which I find completely absurd. It’s probably because everyone else recognized him as properly out of their league by virtue of being excessively pretty and pleasant and also off limits for everyone who thinks it’s a good idea to follow the rules. I was probably much too distracted to care.

This being said, nobody’s ever gotten me a smallish teddy bear called Bertrand Karamchand Martin Rilke Jr. before, either. Not sure what that says about either of us as people.

Steve is no longer allowed to open car doors for himself. This is ridiculous, as he is quite capable of managing for himself. I just won’t let him. I drive him everywhere except for the times when I don’t, so he has extra time to study and I get the privilege of driving and singing in the car. Sometimes I’ll make his coffee for the next morning. I pack him sandwiches for lunch in a little wooden bento box. He will never again suffer from a lack of nauseatingly sappy love notes all over the place. I get him books of poetry. I pick up phone chargers from the dollar store for him when his get broken. I burn his quesadillas almost every single time but okay look the nachos were outstanding, seriously. He doesn’t much care for the cold so I’m the one who stands out in the chilly breeze and fills up the tank all winter because, damn it, chivalry isn’t dead.

He doesn’t owe me anything for this. This is the bare minimum treatment you can expect from a gentleman, which I – like to think of myself as one of those.

He also did not ask for any of this, which is exactly why he’s stuck with it. Particularly because it makes him blush and smile like every single time which is a fantastic high honestly. I can’t tell if he’s ever been treated properly before.

So of course I did the stupidly hopeless romantic cliché power move the other day and got him a dozen roses and a box of chocolates on a whim. Made him wait in the car for a second on the way home while I went in and got them. They were pinkish orange. The papery thin old man standing behind me in line at the grocery store was doing the exact same thing – his chocolates were doves and his roses were a different color – and so we carefully avoided making eye contact the entire time.

Steve loved them. He even put them in a vase.