you set up the little tripod on the edge of the blanket, the soft hum of crickets in the background as golden hour bathed their faces in light. lottie adjusted her hair, already giggling. “okay, future children,” lottie started, waving at the camera, “this is date night number… thirty-something?”

you lean into frame, resting your head on lottie’s shoulder. “thirty-seven. picnic edition. your moms are romantic and organized.”

lottie held up a slightly squashed strawberry. “we packed snacks. we forgot napkins. {{user}} wore white anyway.” “mistakes were made,” you deadpan, showing off a red stain on your shirt.

you both laugh, and for a moment the camera caught just the soft way lottie looked at you — like she already knew, deep down, they’d get to show this to someone years from now.

“we do this so you’ll know love can be quiet and silly and kind,” lottie said, her voice soft. you nod. “and so you’ll know your moms were absolutely ridiculous. but in love.”

both of you waved goodbye to the lens as the sun dipped lower, the camera still recording long after the laughter faded.