Valentine’s Eve
The days blurred after that first night. We fell into a rhythm that felt dangerously easy: gym after work, walks home that ended at my place more often than his, mornings tangled in sheets, coffee shared on the counter while he teased me about my “consultant glare.” He still had his apartment in Georgetown, still slept there some nights when he needed space to think, but those nights were getting rarer. I didn’t push. He came back on his own.
By mid-February the DC area had thawed just enough that the cherry blossoms were starting to bud along the Tidal Basin, and the news was full of Valentine’s hype. Restaurants offering prix-fixe menus, flower shops bursting with red roses, couples posting heart-eyed selfies on every social feed. I usually ignored it. This year felt different.
We were at the gym on February 13th: Thursday evening, same as always. The place was busier than usual; half the guys seemed to be squeezing in a last-minute pump before date night. Steph was on the bench press, me spotting him. He’d loaded heavier than normal, veins popping along his forearms as he pushed the bar up for the eighth rep.
“Eight,” I counted, hands hovering under the bar. “One more, come on.”
He grunted, locked it out, racked it with a clang. Sat up breathing hard, wiped sweat from his brow with the hem of his tank. The motion pulled the fabric up, exposing that strip of smooth abs I’d become obsessed with tracing with my tongue.
He caught me staring. Grinned. “You’re drooling, old man.”
“Shut up.” I handed him his water bottle. “You’re showing off.”
“Maybe.” He took a long drink, throat working. Then quieter, so only I could hear: “Tomorrow’s Valentine’s.”
I nodded. “I know.”
He looked down at his shoes, suddenly shy. “She booked that dinner for us. At Isola Mare. Seven o’clock. I never canceled it.”
My stomach tightened, but I kept my face neutral. “You thinking about going?”
“No.” He met my eyes. “I mean... yes. But not with her. With you.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You want to take me to the fancy seafood place your ex-girlfriend reserved for your breakup Valentine’s?”
He laughed... short, nervous. “When you say it like that it sounds insane. But… yeah. I want to take you somewhere nice. Somewhere that isn’t my couch or your kitchen counter. I want to do this right.”
I studied him. The flush on his cheeks wasn’t just from lifting. His hands fidgeted with the cap of his bottle.
“You sure?” I asked. “Public. Us. Together.”
He swallowed. “I’m sure I want to try. I’m not ready to, like, hold hands down M Street or anything. But a table in the corner? Dinner? Talking like normal people instead of just fucking and falling asleep? Yeah. I want that.”
My chest did that stupid warm thing again. I reached out, brushed my thumb over his wrist: quick, hidden between our bodies.
“Okay,” I said. “Dinner tomorrow. My treat.”
He shook his head. “No. My idea. My card.”
“Stubborn.”
“Learned from the best.”
We finished the workout in companionable quiet, stealing glances, brushing shoulders on purpose. In the locker room he changed slower than usual, letting me see every inch as he peeled off sweat-soaked gear. When he bent to pull up his jeans his ass flexed, and I had to grip the locker door to keep from reaching for him right there.
Outside, the air was crisp but not freezing. We walked the familiar route, but tonight he slipped his hand into mine for the last block... only when the street was empty. Fingers lacing tight. Palm warm. I squeezed back.
At my door he didn’t let go right away.
“Tomorrow,” he said softly. “Seven. I’ll meet you there. Wear something nice. No gym shorts.”
I smirked. “Bossy.”
“Only when I know what I want.” He leaned up, kissed me quick and hard... open-mouthed, tongue brushing mine, then pulled back before anyone could see. “See you tomorrow, Avie.”
He jogged off toward the Metro, blond head disappearing around the corner.
I went inside, locked the door, leaned against it, and let out a long breath.
Valentine’s Day. With Steph. In public.
For the first time since I could remember, the thought didn’t make me want to run.
It made me want to buy a new shirt.
The next morning, Valentine’s Day, I woke up alone. Steph had texted at midnight: Needed to sleep at my place tonight. Clearing my head. See you at 7. Don’t be late, consultant.
I smiled at the screen like an idiot.
Work was half-speed; my brain kept drifting to the evening. I left the office early, hit the barber for a quick beard trim, then stood in front of my closet longer than any grown man should. Ended up with charcoal slacks, a deep navy button-down rolled to the forearms, no tie. Simple. Masculine. The way I knew he liked me.
Isola Mare was in Georgetown, waterfront, all polished wood and soft lighting. I got there at 6:55, gave the hostess Steph’s name. She smiled... polite, knowing and led me to a corner table by the window. Candles. White tablecloth. View of the Potomac glittering under string lights.
I sat. Waited.
At 7:02 he walked in.
Navy blazer over a crisp white shirt, sleeves cuffed, dark jeans that hugged his thighs just right. Blond buzz cut freshly faded, clean-shaven, green eyes scanning until they found me. The second they did, his whole face softened.
He crossed the room, slid into the chair across from me.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said, a little breathless. “Metro was a nightmare.”
“You’re perfect,” I told him.
He flushed. Looked down at the menu like it was the most interesting thing in the world.
We ordered: oysters, grilled branzino for him, steak for me, a bottle of red that cost more than I usually spent on wine. Small talk at first: gym gossip, Caps game predictions, how he’d accidentally ordered gluten-free pasta last week and hated every bite.
Then the conversation turned quieter.
“I canceled the apartment lease today,” he said, swirling his wine. “Gave notice. Moving out end of March. Figured… new start.”
I nodded. “Where to?”
“Not sure yet. Maybe something closer to Arlington.” He looked up, eyes steady. “Closer to you.”
My heart thudded hard.
“Steph...”
“I’m not asking to move in,” he cut in quickly. “Just… closer. Easier nights. More mornings like the ones we’ve been having.”
I reached across the table, covered his hand with mine. Didn’t care who saw.
“I’d like that,” I said.
He turned his hand over, laced our fingers. Held on.
The rest of dinner passed in a warm haze: good food, better wine, better company. We talked about nothing and everything. He told me about his childhood in the suburbs, how he’d always been the clumsy kid who made people laugh so they wouldn’t notice he was nervous. I told him about the years of travel, the loneliness that had become background noise until he showed up and made it impossible to ignore.
By dessert, shared tiramisu we barely touched, he was leaning forward, elbows on the table, chin in his hand, watching me like I was the only thing in the room.
“Walk with me?” he asked when the check came.
We paid, split it, despite his protests... and stepped out into the February night. The air was mild, almost spring-like. We walked along the waterfront path, shoulders brushing, no hand-holding yet but close enough that it felt intimate.
At a quiet stretch of railing he stopped. Leaned back against it. Pulled me in by the front of my shirt.
“Kiss me,” he whispered.
I did.
Slow. Deep. His hands sliding up my back, mine cupping his jaw. He tasted like coffee and wine and him. When we broke apart he rested his forehead against mine.
“I think I’m falling for you,” he said, voice barely audible over the water.
My breath caught.
“Yeah?” I murmured.
“Yeah.” He smiled... small, scared, happy. “Is that okay?”
I kissed him again... soft this time. “More than okay.”
We stood there a long time, wrapped in each other, city lights reflecting on the river.
Later, back at my place, we didn’t rush to the bedroom. Just undressed slow, climbed under the covers, held each other skin to skin. No urgency. Just closeness.
He fell asleep with his head on my chest, arm slung over my waist, leg thrown over mine.
I stayed awake longer, fingers tracing lazy patterns on his back.
For the first time in my life, the butterflies weren’t a warning.
They were a promise.
And I wasn’t running from them anymore.
... To be continued
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