19 - Guardian of Romance

It’s Sunday. We’re in the bathtub, trying to map out the week ahead—because, despite posting the job, the position of Executive Director of Bed Traffic is still unfilled. My husband tells me he won’t be going on a date Friday.

He’s already arranged to see Chloé on Thursday instead.

I blink at him.

Any guesses why he’s skipping Friday?

You’ll never guess.

Because Friday is Valentine’s Day.

Yes, my pragmatic hubby—the same man who still hasn’t used the pre-filled love note pad I gave him—is now avoiding extramarital dates because it would feel unromantic. On Valentine’s Day. Naturally, my response as a jaded wife is to burst out laughing.

I think it’s a joke.

Spoiler: it isn’t.

He’s serious. Dead serious.

I’m this close to checking his temperature. Has he been hacked?

Still, I’m amused.

I had a date with Amar scheduled for Tuesday anyway—so who cares?

The next day, I try to mock the mister's sudden romance attack with my second soulmate (I’m greedy like that), and… She sides with him. Unbelievable!

She’s usually only marginally more romantic than my husband, and even she’s team “Valentine’s purity.”

But the day wasn’t done with me yet.

Amar messages: Our upcoming “and-they-fucked-happily-ever-after-until-their-legs-gave-out” date? Postponed to Friday.

Oh no. Really not good.

Now, if you’re thinking:

“Big deal, just fuck next week,”

…you clearly don’t understand the geopolitics of poly scheduling.

If we didn’t meet Friday, it would be six weeks until our next window.

Winter break was starting Monday—he’d have his son. Then I’d be on vacation. And right after that: Ramadan.

What I needed was a logistics genius.

What I had was… me.

So I had only one choice:

Negotiate with the self-declared Guardian of Romance—

A man who once gave me Valentine’s flowers a week early because they were cheaper and "surprises work better when you're not expecting them."

So… how did those negotiations go?

Let’s just say:

I didn’t get roses.

But I did get a 6’3", muscular, incredibly delicious delivery right to my door. Three hours. Premium service. No wrapping. Just satisfaction. (Take that, Amazon Prime.)

Sex with Amar felt like our first date—only without the annoying clothes.

After almost an hour of non-stop action, we landed in the shower, where we lingered for what felt like a blissful eternity.

There was this unexpected intimacy between us—something so soft, so connected, it would've knocked my socks off. If I’d been wearing any.

He seemed to soak it all in—every kiss, every touch, every gaze—like a man famished for closeness. Afterward, we spent the end of his Zoom meeting (yes, he was technically working from home) half-dressed, making out on the couch, camera off.

After that morning, my battery was more drained than my Satisfyer after a solo weekend. I needed a two-hour nap just to be ready for round two.

Because, obviously, I had to thank my hubby properly for his selfless Valentine’s gift.

In hindsight, I’m wondering if that wasn’t his plan all along.

He is in marketing, after all.

And if so? Touché.

My Valentine’s Day was—quite literally—fulfilling.

No chocolate. No flowers.

Just calorie-free, health-boosting, thoroughly satisfying cardio.

Cupid, take notes. This is how you do romance in 2025.