The bell above the bookstore door jingles, and I look up from the stack of poetry collections I’m arranging—only to freeze. There’s Adams, standing in the doorway, the afternoon sun streaming behind him like a golden halo, and for a second, I forget how to breathe. He’s wearing a new jacket: a camel-colored wool coat, tailored just right, the collar turned up slightly against the crisp autumn air. It’s nothing like his usual hoodies or flannel shirts—those soft, familiar layers I’ve grown to love—but this? This makes my chest feel tight, like my heart’s trying to leap out of my throat.
He spots me, and a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth—the same lopsided smile that made me fall for him six months ago, when he’d stumbled into the store asking for a copy of my favorite Mary Oliver book. “You’re staring,” he says, walking over, his boots tapping softly on the wooden floor. I set down the book in my hand, my cheeks warming. “Can you blame me?” I say, gesturing to his jacket. “You look… wow.” He laughs, scratching the back of his neck—a nervous habit I adore—and his eyes crinkle at the corners. “I was nervous to wear it,” he admits. “Thought it might be too much.” “Too much?” I say, stepping closer. I reach out, my fingers brushing the soft wool of the jacket. “It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”
He leans in, his voice low. “Only because you’re here,” he says. My breath catches, and for a moment, the bookstore fades—the sound of pages turning, the quiet chatter of customers, the soft hum of the heater. It’s just us, standing in the middle of the poetry section, the scent of old books and his cedar cologne mixing in the air. I’ve seen Adams in so many ways: messy-haired in the morning, covered in flour after we tried to bake cookies, laughing so hard he snorts at a bad movie. But there’s something about this jacket—something about the way it fits him, the way it makes him look both polished and still so undeniably him—that makes my heart race.
“You know,” I say, looping my arm through his, “when you first walked in, I thought I was imagining things. Like, is that really my Adams, all dressed up?” He grins, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. “Your Adams,” he repeats, like he’s savoring the words. “Always.” We walk through the bookstore together, our steps slow, stopping to look at a shelf of classic novels here, a display of children’s books there. Every time we pass a mirror—small, round ones hung on the walls between bookshelves—I catch a glimpse of us: me in my favorite sweater, him in that camel jacket, our arms linked, our smiles soft. And every time, I feel that same flutter in my chest—the same feeling I get when he holds my hand, or whispers goodnight, or brings me my favorite tea when I’m sick.
Later, as we walk home, the sun setting in a wash of pink and orange, Adams takes my hand, his fingers laced with mine. The jacket’s sleeve brushes against my arm, and I snuggle closer to him, stealing his warmth. “Did you buy the jacket for a reason?” I ask, curiosity getting the better of me. He pauses, turning to look at me, his eyes soft. “I saw it last week, when I was walking past that little shop on Main Street,” he says. “And I thought… I want to look nice for you. Not because I have to, but because you deserve someone who wants to put in the effort. Someone who wants to make you smile.”
Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, and I wrap my arms around his waist, pressing my face into his chest. The jacket is warm, and it smells like him, and I never want to let go. “You always make me smile,” I mumble into his shirt. He wraps his arms around me, holding me tight. “Good,” he says, pressing a kiss to my hair. “Because I plan on making you smile for a long time.” We stand there for a while, watching the sun dip below the rooftops, the world quiet around us. And as I hold onto him, feeling the steady beat of his heart against my cheek, I know. It’s not just the jacket that makes him look amazing—it’s the way he loves me. The way he pays attention, the way he cares, the way he makes every moment feel special.
When we finally start walking again, Adams keeps his arm around me, and I glance up at him, his profile lit by the last of the sunlight. He catches me looking, and he smiles—my favorite smile, the one that makes his eyes shine. “What?” he says. “Nothing,” I say, leaning my head on his shoulder. “Just thinking about how lucky I am. To have you. Jacket and all.” He laughs, squeezing my hand. “The feeling’s mutual,” he says. And as we walk toward our apartment, the sky darkening, the streetlights turning on one by one, I know that no matter what Adams wears—hoodies, flannel, or that perfect camel jacket—I’ll always look at him the same way: with love, with admiration, with that same flutter in my chest that started the day we met. Because it’s never been about the clothes. It’s always been about him. My Adams. Perfect, just the way he is.
