What’s your definition of romantic?

People throw around the word romantic like it’s supposed to be this one-size-fits-all Hallmark fantasy. Roses, candles, bubble baths, handwritten poems—blah blah blah. That’s not me. That’s not us. If I ever showed up with rose petals on the bed, my wife would think I lost a bet or joined a cult.

See, to me, romance isn’t about some staged “Instagram-worthy” moment. It’s not about a big gesture you only do once a year because some greeting card company said you should. Romance is the real shit.

Romance is showing up—after a long-ass day where I’ve delivered hot meals all morning and dealt with chaos and assholes all night at Domino’s—and still coming home, sitting beside my wife, dogs in our laps, and just being there. No talking. No grand speeches. Just existing together. That’s connection.

Romance is when she knows my order without asking. When we laugh at the same inside joke from ten years ago. When I say something under my breath and she gets it. That right there? That’s love. That’s us.

Sometimes romance is just grabbing a coffee together, even if we don’t have much time. Or going geocaching and ending up somewhere weird but laughing our way through it anyway. It’s not planned. It’s not forced. It just happens.

And food—yeah, food can be romantic. Like that one time I had tiramisu at a local coffee shop and it blew my damn mind. Now every time we come across it, it’s like a little nod to that moment. Small things, but they hit deep.

Romance is loyalty. It’s knowing the other person is in the trench with you, no matter what kind of day you’ve had. It’s not about pretty words or grand gestures—it’s about showing up. Over and over.

So no, I’m not the candlelit dinner type. I’m the “let’s survive this week and grab some tacos” kind of guy. And honestly? I wouldn’t have it any other way.