The Day We Held Hands

The sun was warm that afternoon, gentle against their jackets as they stepped up onto the café’s verandah. The little brass bell above the door jingled as they entered, the smell of coffee and baked goods wrapping around them like a blanket.

She stopped at the counter, eyes flicking over the glass cabinet of pastries as though she were studying priceless art. There was a kind of pressure in her expression - like she wanted to pick quickly, but couldn’t stop herself from staring at everything.

“Brownie,” she decided at last.

He paid for it, adding two hot chocolates to the order. They picked up a table number and found a small spot near the big glass windows, sunlight pouring across the two-seater table. She slipped off her jacket, and the light caught her blonde hair, turning it into spun gold. She smiled brightly at him, cheeks flushed.

“Isn’t this exciting?”

He smiled back. “It’s your first café in how long?”

“Since I was a little girl,” she admitted, almost reverent.

Her grin had hardly left her face since they’d met at the bus stop earlier. She leaned back, studying the ceiling where hanging plants swayed gently above their heads.

“It’s cozy,” she said. “Warm. Friendly. I could get used to this.”

He nodded. “Do you come here often?” she asked, tilting her head.

“Not really,” he said. “But if you like it… I might start.”

Her eyes brightened. “Then it can be our café. Our little place.”

He grinned. “That’s cute. I like that idea.”

“And that florist,” she added, “It was so cute. It might be my favourite shop.”

The waitress brought their drinks and the brownie - two forks tucked against the plate. She winked as she left, and they both laughed awkwardly.

She reached for her cup too soon and flinched as the heat bit at her fingers. He chuckled, and she scowled playfully.

“Hey! I didn’t know it was lava!”

Still grinning, he cut the brownie into halves. They started nibbling as the steam drifted lazily from their cups, filling the space between them with the smell of chocolate.

Outside, the city went on as if they didn’t exist - buses groaning, cars rushing past, people streaming endlessly along the sidewalks. From behind the tinted glass, though, it all felt far away. They were invisible, just two silhouettes sharing a table.

He turned back just in time to see her swallow the last of his half of the brownie. She tried to hide it, but the lump in her cheek betrayed her.

“Hey! That was mine!”

She burst into giggles, muffled by chocolate. He tried to glare, but ended up laughing too.

When their drinks cooled, he finally lifted his cup. The foam clung to his lips, and her laugh bubbled out again.

“What now?” he asked, deadpan.

She pointed, barely containing her amusement. “Foam moustache.”

Heat rushed to his face as he wiped at it with a serviette, but her smile made it impossible to feel embarrassed.

They finished their drinks, thanked the woman at the counter, and stepped back into the street. The city bustled around them - horns, chatter, engines - but it felt distant, like they were in their own little world.

He walked with one hand holding his cup, the other swinging loose at his side. And then - suddenly - warmth.

Her hand slipped into his, soft and certain.

His heart lurched. He glanced down, half-afraid he’d imagined it, but no - her fingers curled gently around his. She didn’t look at him. She just kept walking, gaze fixed on the sidewalk ahead.

Carefully, he turned his hand, threading his fingers through hers.

It felt natural. Too natural, as though they’d been walking like this forever. His pulse raced, but he didn’t care. He wanted to remember this moment forever: the noise of the city, the warmth of her palm, the simple miracle of holding her hand.

He felt like the luckiest man alive.