After Hours And Almost

The last customer left just after eight—a quiet fisherman named Theo who never said much but always left a folded paper crane on the counter. Emery had a whole flock of them now, nesting in the corners of shelves and tucked behind sugar jars. She never asked why he did it. Some things didn't need answers to be beautiful.

The door clicked shut, and the outside world dimmed, the café becoming its own small universe—quiet and golden, the windows fogged at the edges. Cal was wiping down the tables without being asked, moving with the kind of care you use in places you want to be invited back to.

"You're better at this than I remember," Emery teased, tossing a dishrag onto the counter.

"I used to wipe the tables with too much soap," he said, grinning. "You'd yell that I was 'blinding the customers with lemon-scented streaks.'"

"I was a little dramatic back then."

"You still are," he said, dodging the rag she half-heartedly threw at his chest.

They laughed, and the sound echoed warm through the empty café.

After the chairs were stacked and the lights dimmed low, Emery poured two glasses of red wine and nodded toward the booth by the window.

"I don't serve this during café hours," she said, sliding into the seat.

Cal joined her, cradling the glass in both hands. "Special occasion?"

"I only open the good bottle when I'm feeling bold," she said with a little shrug.

He swirled the wine, watching the color catch in the candlelight. "So… how bold are we talking?"

Emery leaned back, one leg tucked under her. "Bold enough to ask you questions I should've asked a long time ago."

He nodded, settling in. "Ask."

She looked at him carefully, like she was looking through the years instead of just at them.

"What was the best place you ever saw?" she asked.

He smiled. "A beach in southern New Zealand. It was winter. No one around. Just driftwood, gray skies, and waves that sounded like thunder in a tunnel. I sat there for hours. Didn't take a single photo."

"Why not?"

"Didn't want to share it," he said quietly. "Felt like it belonged to me and one other person."

She held his gaze, the air between them tightening a little.

"Did you ever fall in love?" she asked next, voice steady but soft.

Cal looked down at his glass. "I tried. A few times. Got close once."

"And?"

"She was lovely," he said. "But she wasn't… home."

Emery didn't respond. Just sipped her wine, letting the silence stretch.

"Your turn," Cal said after a moment.

She raised an eyebrow. "For what?"

"Something bold."

She exhaled, tracing the rim of her glass with one finger. Then she looked up.

"I still wear the ring," she said.

He blinked. "Ring?"

She held up her right hand—slim silver band, worn smooth with time. "From the fair. You gave it to me when we were sixteen and told me you'd marry me someday."

Cal laughed, choked a little by surprise. "I didn't think you kept that."

"I didn't either. But it was there. And every time I tried to throw it out, something in me said wait."

"Wait for what?"

"I didn't know. Maybe just… wait until it didn't hurt anymore."

He looked at her like he wanted to reach across the table, but his hands stayed still.

"Does it still hurt?"

She didn't answer right away.

"Yes," she said. "But not in the way it used to. It's more like a scar now. Something you learn to live around."

They sat with that, the wine slowly disappearing, the candle burning low.

Cal finally broke the silence, his voice quiet. "I'd do it differently if I could."

Emery looked at him, her expression unreadable.

"I believe you," she said.

A long pause. Then, in a voice so gentle he almost didn't catch it:

"Would you kiss me if I asked?"

Cal's heart stopped.

"Only if you really meant it," he said.

She looked at him, eyes clear, no games, no drama.

"I do."

So he leaned across the table, slow and certain. And when they kissed, it didn't feel like a firework. It wasn't cinematic. It was quiet and warm, like stepping into sunlight after a long, cold winter.

When they pulled apart, they didn't say anything.

They didn't have to.

Outside, the lighthouse pulsed once—bright, steady, sure.