He's glad she thinks so, that everything is as special as he wanted it to be, but it's kind of funny to him when he thinks about the fact that in about five seconds, those rose petals aren't even remotely going to matter anymore. Like, there will be absolutely no shits given about these rose petals by either of them because they'll be way too preoccupied with doing what they've wanted to do for months--that is the plural of month--now. To be fair, he's yet to find a moment with her that hasn't felt significant, that hasn't been just a little different from moments spent with anyone else, and he suspects that might be because he's been in love with her maybe for longer than he'd managed to clue himself in.

She has her hands on his back now and it sends shivers through him and maybe they could draw this out, drive each other even crazier, but they've been waiting for so goddamn long. He doesn't know if he could take it. He pulls his shirt off, a low whimper sounding from his throat when they have to break their kiss, and throws it aside, stepping out of his shoes as he gently nudges her toward the bed. "In case you forgot," he says, reaching around her to unhook her bra through her shirt, "I love you."