Graham

It started with a ridiculous idea.

One that got stuck in his head and refused to budge.

Tessa deserved a big, flashy gallery opening. She deserved a fancy venue and champagne and critics scribbling notes about her genius.

But also — she deserved something that felt like her.

Warm. Unpretentious.
Full of life and laughter and the smell of coffee in the air.

It was Lucy who first said it out loud.

“You know,” she mused one afternoon while they sorted invoices behind the counter, “this place could use some new art on the walls.”

Graham blinked.
Then blinked again.

And the whole thing snapped into focus.

He booked the date before he could overthink it — a Saturday night, a few weeks out, when the café would usually close early.

Lucy grinned when he told her.

“You’re hopeless,” she said fondly, pulling him into a hug.
“And you’re lucky she likes you as much as you like her.”

He grumbled something noncommittal.

But maybe — just maybe — it was true.

---

Tessa

The week Graham started acting weird, Tessa chalked it up to work stress.

Or maybe Moose eating one of his beloved spreadsheets.
(Okay, not literally, but it felt plausible.)

He kept disappearing for random meetings. Kept texting vague things like “Be ready Saturday night.”

Tessa tried not to overthink it.
Tried to focus on her new projects and not spiral into daydreams about what it might mean.

It wasn’t until Saturday afternoon, when Lucy handed her a brand-new dress and a pair of ballet flats and said, “Trust me,” that she started to panic.

“What’s happening?” Tessa asked, clutching the hanger like a life raft.

Lucy just winked.

“You’ll see.”

---

Graham

By six o’clock, the café had been transformed.

Lights were strung from the ceiling like tiny, captured stars.
Tables had been pushed aside, making space for people to wander freely.
Lucy’s catering spread — mini sandwiches, pastries, sparkling cider — lined one side of the counter.

And on every wall, framed and displayed with careful intention, were Tessa’s photographs.

The shots he’d secretly printed from her portfolio — cityscapes bursting with colour, candid portraits that seemed to breathe, landscapes so vivid they made your chest ache.

She belonged on these walls.
She belonged everywhere.

Graham paced by the front window, nerves buzzing in his veins.

When the bells jingled and she stepped inside, he thought his heart might actually stop.

Tessa froze just inside the doorway, eyes wide, mouth falling open.

Slowly, she turned in a circle, taking it all in.

Her hand pressed to her chest.

“Graham,” she whispered.

He stepped toward her, heart hammering.

“I wanted people to see what I see,” he said quietly.
“How good you are.”

Tessa looked at him then — really looked — and he felt it like a physical touch.

A thousand things passed between them in that moment.
Gratitude. Wonder.
Something bigger and heavier and infinitely more terrifying than either of them could name.

Slowly, Tessa closed the distance between them.

She rose onto her toes and pressed a kiss to his cheek — just the barest brush of lips against skin.

“Thank you,” she whispered against him.
“For seeing me.”

Graham exhaled, shaky and overwhelmed and stupidly, stupidly in love.

“Always,” he murmured.