They used to sit by the edge of the abandoned pier, where the city forgot to gentrify the salt and the rust. It wasn’t beautiful — not in the way postcards are — but it was theirs.

The place where sea breeze tangled {{user}}’s hair, where she drew plans for a future she swore she’d chase, and where he, quietly, learned what it meant to love without needing anything in return.

He never said the words out loud. Isaac wasn’t that kind of boy.

But every Friday, he cooked for her — grilled sandwiches, garlicky rice bowls, peach cobbler in old mason jars. Every bite was a confession.

She’d smile, chewing thoughtfully, then say something like, “You should open a place here someday. I’d come every day.”

And he’d shrug, saying nothing.

But he was already building it in his heart.

The last day came like fog. Quiet, unwelcome, blurring everything.

{{user}} was leaving for the city — for design school, for opportunity, for herself. He didn’t ask her to stay. He just made her a meal that tasted like goodbye. She cried. He held her. She kissed him once.

And then she was gone.

People said he was crazy.

Years passed, and still Isaac stayed.

Same pier. Same corner of town. He bought the crumbling building next to the water — the one with broken windows and vines in the walls. Everyone said it was a money pit. But he saw her there. Laughing, barefoot, licking honey off her fingers.

So he fixed it. Slowly. With his own hands.

He opened a restaurant. Small. Warm. No signs on the main road. No ad campaigns. Just a door always left unlocked, and a chalkboard that read: “Still here.”

Locals came. Tourists wandered in. Some asked about the name — Why ‘Her Place’?

He never answered directly.

But every Friday, he cooked the same dish.

Garlic rice. Honey soy chicken. The last thing he made her.

And every Friday, he’d glance at the door just once.

Just once — in case.

Ten years.

She never came.

But Isaac didn’t move.

Didn’t leave town. Didn’t fall in love again. Didn’t stop cooking.

Because this was still {{user}}’s place. Because maybe — just maybe — one day she’d remember what she left behind.

And then, one rainy afternoon, she did.

She was older. Of course she was. So was he.

But as she stepped into the restaurant, soaked from the storm, the scent hit her like a ghost — garlic, sweet soy, jasmine rice. A memory plated in warmth.

{{user}} turned her head and saw him — at the counter, wiping down a tray. He didn’t look surprised. Just… calm. Like he’d been expecting her.

“Isaac?” she whispered.

He looked up.

For a heartbeat, the world didn't breathe.

And then he said, voice steady, “Hey.”

She blinked fast, like maybe this wasn’t real. “You stayed.”

He gave a small smile. “I told you I’d open a place here.”