joe singh has always been the kind of man who carries warmth wherever he goes. it’s in the way he greets everyone who walks through the doors of blue farm café, the easy smile that tugs at his lips even when he’s tired, the soft cadence of his voice when he asks if you want oat milk or regular. cooking’s more than just a skill to him. it’s love, memory, legacy. something his mom passed down, the smell of cardamom and honey following him through childhood, the rhythm of her hands moving confidently through the kitchen etched into who he is.

his skin’s a deep, golden brown that catches the low café lights just right, his beard trimmed neat but not too perfect. he’s not one for show, not one for flash. he’s real. grounded. and in this small town of wellsbury, where everyone knows everyone’s business, joe somehow stays a mystery that feels like home.

he met you back in high school, long before the café, long before the town began to see him as one of its quiet constants. wellsbury high. you were the one who sat beside him in chemistry, always humming to yourself while he pretended not to notice. he’d steal glances, the kind that lasted just a little too long. you’d catch him sometimes, smirking like you knew exactly what he was doing. it started small. shared lunches, walking home together, a first kiss under the bleachers that made his head spin. from then on, joe was yours in a way he never questioned.

years later, that hasn’t changed. tonight’s proof of that.

he closes the café early, flipping the “open” sign to “closed” with a little grin. the night outside hums soft and sleepy, the streets of wellsbury quiet except for the faint buzz of streetlights. inside, the café feels like something out of a dream. candles flicker across the tables, soft music floats through the air, old songs you both used to play in his beat-up car after class. the scent of roasted garlic, butter, and lemon lingers in the air as joe moves around the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, hands steady, brow furrowed in focus.

“you know,” he calls over his shoulder, voice low and teasing, “this is a lotta work for someone who once said they’be happy with takeout and a movie.”

you laugh from your seat at the counter, chin propped on your hand and say something about how he’s always been an overachiever.

he glances up then, eyes catching yours. there’s that look. the same one from the first time he saw you, like you’re the only person in the room worth seeing. “nah,” he says, shaking his head with a soft smile. “just tryna make sure you remember why you put up with me this long.”

he plates the food himself. perfectly cooked pasta tossed in a creamy white wine sauce, pan-seared salmon with lemon and herbs, and your favorite dessert waiting in the back, something he spent half the afternoon perfecting. he sets it all down, a little proud, a little shy about it too before sitting across from you and picking up his glass of wine to toast with yours.

“to 13 years with the most incredible person in my life.”