I love filling my relationship with romance.

Romance is far more often manufactured than discovered. Somebody decides, for no reason at all, that dinner is happening on the balcony tonight, and moves two chairs.

The waiting version rarely works. When both people are waiting to be swept up, no sweeping occurs and each quietly concludes the other has stopped trying.

Filling is the useful verb. It implies effort, and slightly silly effort at that: a note in a lunch bag at forty-three years old, which is exactly the sort of thing that works.

Whatever you would feel faintly embarrassed doing is probably the right move.