Sam shakes her head, a small smile breaking through. "Tom—you can't give me credit for that work. That photography was taken way before we even met—"
"And no one would have seen it if it hadn't been for you."
Sam stops. Her throat tightens. A tear slips out.
I shift closer on the bench. I reach up and catch the tear with my thumb, my hand lingering near her cheek.
She doesn't say anything. She just looks at me.
We sit like that for a moment—close, quiet, the city moving around us.
Then Sam takes a breath. "You told Martha my work was better than yours."
I don't hesitate. "I did."
Sam looks down at our hands again, still joined. "Tom, I saw your exhibit. That work is—" She stops, shakes her head. "I don't know how you can say mine is better."
I shake my head. "You know what the Harbor project site looks like right now? Rusted steel, crumbling brick, broken windows, graffiti covering every surface. It's a wreck. It's been abandoned for years."
I look at her. "And you walked onto that site and saw a neighborhood. You saw daylight pouring into apartments. You saw kids playing in a courtyard. You saw people sitting at cafe tables where right now there's just rubble."
My voice softens. "You didn't solve a problem, Sam. You imagined a world that doesn't exist yet—and then you made other people believe in it. That's what great art does. It changes the way people see."
Sam doesn't say anything for a moment. She just looks at me, her eyes bright. Then she shakes her head, a small, disbelieving laugh escaping. "I don't know how you do that."
"Do what?"
"Make me see myself differently." She swallows. "I've been so focused on getting it right, making sure it worked, that I didn't even think about..." She trails off, then meets my eyes.
"You make me feel like I'm more than I thought I was."
"Good."
My thumb is still resting against her cheek.
I take a breath.
"Because I love you, Samantha Morgan." I don't look away. "And I want to spend every day making sure you see yourself the way I see you."
Sam's hand comes up to cover mine, still resting on her cheek. Her voice is quiet, almost shaky. "I love you Tom. I love you so much."
My thumb brushes across her cheekbone, catching the tear. My eyes don't leave hers. "I like hearing that." I smile. "Say it again."
She smiles through the tears. "I love you."
I lean in slowly, my hand sliding from her cheek to the back of her neck, my fingers threading into her hair.
Her hand falls away and rests against my chest.
Her eyes lift to mine.
Then I kiss her.
The kiss is soft at first—tentative, like we're both still absorbing what just happened. Then my other hand comes up to cup her face, and Sam's free hand finds my chest. The kiss deepens, and for a moment the city disappears—the traffic, the voices, the light from the streetlamps.
When we pull back, I rest my forehead against hers. We're both breathing a little heavier. I don't let go.
"I love you," I say again, quieter this time. Like I'm testing the words, making sure they're real.
