Lamplight

They always chose the table closest to the window, even though the glass fogged up every February and the streetlight outside buzzed like it was tired of shining. The café smelled like burnt espresso and orange peel, heavy as a wool blanket.

They didn’t talk much at first. Love, at this stage, was still shy  — a small, feathered thing nesting between them like a third cup, steaming quietly.

Outside, the street was wet from earlier rain, lamplit and glowing as if it had been polished just for them. Cars passed slowly, tires whispering secrets to the asphalt. Every so often, someone laughed too loudly down the block, and they both smiled.

“You’re smiling again,” one said.

“I like the way the light hits your face,” the other replied, embarrassed but honest. “It makes you look like a soft-focus daydream.”

They watched the steam rise from their mugs, twisting like ribbon on a poorly wrapped gift. Fingers brushed accidentally — then intentionally. No fireworks. Just a steady, golden warmth, as sweet and yellow as the corn the local geese hunted in the park.

Love didn’t arrive with a brass band. It settled in. It learned the rhythm of their breathing. It noticed the chipped edge of the table and the café clock that ran two minutes slow.

When they finally stood to leave, the cold outside tried to argue with them. They pulled their coats tighter, laughed, and walked close enough that their shoulders touched. The streetlights followed them, one by one, like a gentle escort home.

Later, they would remember this night not for anything extraordinary, but for how ordinary it felt —  and how safe. As if the world, for a moment, had decided to be kind.

Some loves are loud.

This one was lamplit.