The bell above the café door chimed as another Brooklyn morning began. The smell of roasted beans, cinnamon, and indie vinyls mixed with the low hum of conversation from regulars who swore your little coffee shop was the only place in the city worth waking up for.

And at the center of it all was Vanessa Abrams—camera slung over her shoulder, curls pulled back, and a stubborn streak that matched your own.

You and Vanessa had opened The Grind House almost a year ago, a wild idea born over late-night talks about art, freedom, and needing a space that felt real in a city full of glossy façades.

Now, it was your shared world—a place where she edited her documentaries in the back booth while you experimented with new latte recipes up front.

This morning, she leaned against the counter, watching you with a smirk as you tried (and failed) to master the heart-shaped foam art she somehow did effortlessly.

“You’re still making mutant clouds,” she teased.

You squinted down at the cup. “It’s abstract expressionism, thank you very much.”

Vanessa laughed, the sound warm and soft. “You mean it’s a mess.”

You handed her the mug anyway. “You love it.”

She took a sip and raised a brow. “Okay… maybe I do.”