Valentine's Day was not a big affair.
There were those out there who tended to look at the holiday as a reason to go all out, as if the amount of flowers gifted or money spent on a bottle of wine at dinner somehow proved the strength of their love. Some of it could be sweet, sure, but it had turned into a silly competition of sorts, a day dedicated to buying someone else's heart, and doing so in a bigger and better manner than the next guy.
All things considered, there wasn't much that a dinner or a box of chocolate could say that they hadn't already established. Steve loved Diana, and Diana loved Steve. Of the two of them, Diana was more the household breadwinner due to her position with the Louvre and century of maintaining accounts, and she had already provided him with everything he could ever need or monetary value. And, a lifetime ago when their positions had been reversed, he had done the same for her. They had nights out and nights in, travelled and wrote notes and everything else that was meant to make the date stand out.
So, when their first Valentine's Day rolled around, they didn't make a big thing of it. Which, of course, isn't to say they made nothing of it.
They cooked together, something Mediterranean Diana insisted he try, soft music drifting into the kitchen from first a record player and then an iPod once they realized messy hands didn't make for ideal album flipping. It was at this time that a bet was made - who could cut out the most paper hearts in the ten minutes the food was to be left unattended. Not even halfway through, though, the bet was abandoned, as their little stacks of haphazardly cut shapes got knocked about and mixed together, elbows then hands then lips brushing until the challenge was mutually deemed unimportant.
The beep of the timer put an end to that, or a temporary pause, rather. The music was switched back to vinyl as a few candles were lit and food moved from counter to table to plate. To the credit of their willpower, they made it over halfway through the meal, smiling and chatting and getting up once to change the record and refill the wine glasses. But when the laughter over childhood tales left them both feeling light, a hint of the daring of youth bleeding through into the moment, the table and the food and flickering candles were left to sit.
By morning, the candles would have burned themselves out, the food would likely be unsalvageable, and it would no longer be the calendar date dedicated to love. But when they awaken in one another's arms, catch each other's drowsy, contented gazes, it would not matter.