When we first met, you offered to drink some coffee. We’d been working at the same reception, an old building in the city center, the plaster peeled off from its rosy bricks.

The coffee machine malfunctioned in the kitchen, but it didn’t spoil your enthusiasm. Since guests arrived later, you intended to bring another from an apartment, assuring that our boss wouldn’t notice.

My palms were clammy from the idea. And a formidable opponent, called impostor syndrome, lurked in my daily tasks. However, you gave me an impish smile with sweet dimples on your cheeks. Trespassing together seemed like a great adventure.

One year later, kneeling in the church’s crisp white courtyard, snowflakes melted on your lashes. Glint in the eyes, you proposed to me. Without a doubt, I said yes, trembling in every limb.

Your broad grin convinced me, as our first coffee, it would be a great adventure.