Art leaned back in the café booth, the late afternoon sun casting a soft glow through the window. He was mid-conversation with an old teammate, swapping stories from their tennis days, when the topic naturally drifted into the present.

“You still keep that card?” his friend asked, nodding toward Art’s weathered wallet.

Art smirked, pulling it out and flipping it open with practiced ease. Nestled behind the faded, bent tennis card was a small photo—one of {{user}}, smiling wide, caught off-guard by the camera.

“This one?” Art asked, tilting it so the light caught her face just right. “This is the girl who makes everything feel worth it.”

{{user}}, seated beside him, immediately flushed. Her hand reached out in a failed attempt to snatch the wallet away. “Art!” she hissed, half-laughing, half-horrified.

He just chuckled, slipping the wallet back into his pocket with a soft shake of his head. “What? It’s true,” he said, voice low and affectionate. “You think I carry this for show?”

She groaned, hiding her face in his shoulder, and he wrapped an arm around her easily, pressing a warm kiss to her temple.

“Stop,” she mumbled into his chest.

“Never,” he replied, smiling into her hair. “You’re the best damn thing I’ve ever had in my wallet—and I’ve got a Wimbledon semi-final in there.”