Chapter 27 Pictures
KARA'S POV
My realization doesn’t have time to settle because Finnian moves.
“Come,” he says, not commanding this time, just an invitation.
I follow him along a narrow stone path winding through the flowers. The farther we walk, the quieter the world becomes, until even the city feels like a distant memory. The air is cooler here, shaded by tall trees arching overhead like silent guardians.
Then I see it.
A café rises at the heart of the garden, half-hidden by climbing vines and flowering arches. Soft golden lights glow from inside, warm and inviting, like it’s been waiting for us all along. White-painted wood, tall glass windows, ivy curling up the walls, and hanging lanterns swaying gently in the breeze. I stop walking.
“Oh my God,” I whisper.
Finnian glances back at me, watching my reaction closely. “You like it.”
“That’s an understatement,” I breathe. “This looks like something out of a book.”
The café sits beside a small pond dotted with lilies, their reflections shimmering under the lights. Wooden tables are arranged outside, each one surrounded by flowers instead of walls. Somewhere nearby, I hear soft instrumental music, barely loud enough to notice, just enough to feel.
“This is inside your garden?” I ask, disbelief thick in my voice.
He nods. “I had it built later. When the place started feeling… empty.”
I step closer, fingertips brushing against the smooth wooden railing. The scent of fresh coffee blends with the sweetness of the flowers, grounding and comforting all at once.
“This place feels alive,” I say softly.
“It is,” he replies. “I made sure of that.”
We walk inside.
The warmth greets me instantly. Soft lights, wooden beams, shelves lined with books and ceramic mugs, and a counter displaying pastries that look almost too perfect to touch. Floor-to-ceiling windows let the garden spill into the space, blurring the line between indoors and out.
I spin slowly, trying to take it all in.
“Do people come here?” I ask.
“Sometimes,” he says. “But most days, it’s closed.”
I blink. “Then why keep it running?”
His eyes flick to me. “Because I like knowing it exists.”
That answer feels heavier than it should.
A staff member appears, greeting Finnian with a respectful nod before glancing at me with a curious smile.
“The usual?” she asks him.
“Yes,” he says. Then he looks at me. “And whatever she wants.”
I hesitate. “I don’t know what’s good.”
“Trust me,” he says. “You’ll like it.”
We sit at a table near the window, close enough that I could reach out and touch the flowers outside. I wrap my hands around myself again, but this time not from fear. From the strange, overwhelming sense that I’ve stepped somewhere I don’t fully belong.
“Do you bring people here often?” I ask, before I can stop myself.
He meets my gaze steadily. “No.”
The word is firm. Honest.
“You’re the first,” he adds.
My heart stumbles.
The drinks arrive. A cup of coffee placed in front of him, dark and untouched. In front of me, a delicate porcelain cup filled with something creamy, topped with a hint of cinnamon and honey.
I take a sip.
My eyes widen. “This is amazing.”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “I told you.”
I laugh softly, surprising myself.
For a moment, we just sit there, the silence no longer sharp or uncomfortable. It feels… earned.
“Why show me this?” I ask quietly.
He doesn’t answer right away. His fingers rest around his cup, unmoving.
“Because you saw something you weren’t meant to,” he finally says. “And I didn’t want that to be the only thing you saw of me.”
I look at him then. Really look.
Not the powerful man behind glass walls and closed doors. Not the one who commands rooms without raising his voice. But the one sitting across from me, surrounded by flowers and soft light, offering me pieces of himself without knowing if I’ll stay.
“This place,” I say carefully, “it feels like you.”
He exhales a small laugh. “That’s not exactly a compliment.”
“It is,” I insist. “It’s quiet. Thoughtful. Hidden, but intentional.”
His eyes hold mine, something unspoken stretching between us.
“You make it feel different,” he says.
“How?”
“Less like a memory,” he replies. “And more like a present.”
My chest tightens at that.
Outside, the garden continues to bloom, unaware of the fragile line we’re standing on. And as I sit there, coffee warming my hands and his gaze anchoring me in place, I realize something even more dangerous. This isn’t just a place he’s showing me, it's a part of him he’s opening. And I don’t know if I’m strong enough to walk away from that.
The moment stretches, soft and almost too fragile to touch, then Finnian breaks it.
“Wait here,” he says suddenly.
I blink. “What?”
He’s already standing, pulling his phone from his pocket. “Don’t move.”
That alone makes my nerves spark again, but there’s no sharpness in his tone, no edge and just intent. He walks toward the counter where the staff are quietly minding their own business.
“Can I ask a favor?” he says to them, his voice low but polite.
The woman who served us earlier looks surprised. “Of course, sir.”
“I want photos,” he says simply. “Of us.”
My heart stutters. I straighten in my seat, heat rushing to my face as if I heard him wrong. Of us? I glance toward him, wide-eyed, but he doesn’t look back yet. He’s already handing over his phone.
“Candid,” he adds. “Not staged. Just… us.”
The staff exchange a quick look, smiles tugging at their lips.
“That’s rare,” one of them teases gently.
Finnian only shrugs. “So is this place.”
I swallow. The staff move discreetly, one positioning herself near the shelves, another stepping outside to catch the garden light through the windows. I suddenly become hyper-aware of my posture, of my hands, of the fact that I don’t know what to do with myself. Finnian returns to the table and sits across from me like nothing monumental just happened.
“You didn’t ask me,” I say under my breath.
He leans back slightly.
“Would you have said no?”
I open my mouth, then close it.
“That’s what I thought,” he says, not smug, just… sure.
The camera doesn’t click loudly, it’s subtle, and almost respectful. I try to ignore it then.
“Relax,” Finnian murmurs, eyes on me. “You’re thinking too hard.”
“I don’t like photos,” I admit.
“Why?”
“Because they freeze things,” I say honestly. “And I don’t know what this is yet.”
Something shifts in his expression.
“Then let them capture the uncertainty,” he replies. “That’s real.”
My chest tightens. I take another sip of my drink, eyes drifting toward the window, toward the flowers swaying outside. Finnian watches me, not the camera. I feel it, the weight of his attention, steady and unguarded.
“Look at me,” he says softly.
I hesitate, then do.
The moment our eyes meet, the world narrows. The staff captures it. Not the power and not the wealth. Just two people sitting across from each other, suspended between something unspoken. Finnian reaches for his cup then pauses, glancing at me.
“You have foam,” he says.
“Where?” I ask, instinctively touching my lip.
“Here,” he murmurs, leaning forward.
Before I can react, his thumb brushes my lower lip, gentle and brief, wiping it away. His touch lingers for half a second too long.
Click!
The sound is barely there, but it echoes in my chest.
I pull back slightly, breath uneven.
“Finnian…”
His hand drops immediately. “Sorry.”
But he doesn’t look regretful instead, he looks affected. The staff clears her throat softly.
"Sir, these are… beautiful.”
I laugh nervously. “I’m not even smiling.”
“That’s why they work,” Finnian says, eyes still on me.
A few more shots. Him listening while I speak, me laughing when he says something low and teasing, the space between us shrinking without either of us noticing.
Finally, he raises a hand.
“That’s enough.”
The staff nod and return his phone with a knowing smile. “We’ll send them to you.”
“Thank you,” he says.
When they leave us alone again, the café feels quieter somehow. More intimate.
“Why photos?” I ask, my voice softer now.
He studies the screen briefly, then locks the phone and sets it aside.
“Because this moment matters,” he says. “And I don’t say that lightly.”
I look at him, really look at him.
“And what if it ends?” I ask.
His gaze doesn’t waver.
“Then I’ll remember it exactly as it was,” he replies. “Unfiltered.”
My heart beats harder and louder, like it’s trying to warn me because I know then, deep in my bones, that this wasn’t just about pictures, it was about proof.
That at least once, Finnian Matthew Stewheinz chose to be seen.