The bell over the door rings, and just like that — he's gone.
The suit, the team, the quiet kind of authority that makes the air thrum.
One second he was standing there, all sharp lines and expensive silence, and the next, the café feels smaller without him.
I blink at the empty spot near the window like I can still see him there.
Tall. Composed. A living contradiction to our chalkboard chaos and crooked tables.
Marco nudges me gently. "Earth to Bennett. You okay?"
I startle. "What? Yeah, I'm good. Totally fine. Why wouldn't I be fine?"
He gives me a look. "Because you just stared at the door for a full thirty seconds. Did the espresso fumes finally get to you?"
"Maybe I'm just… professionally curious," I say, grabbing a rag I definitely don't need to use. "He had a very… corporate presence."
"Corporate presence," Marco repeats. "That's one way to describe the human embodiment of LinkedIn."
I snort. "That's mean."
"And accurate. Tell me I'm wrong."
I can't, because he's not.
The man was polished, intimidating, the kind of person who looks like he knows exactly what you did wrong just by breathing near him.
And yet — something about him wasn't all spreadsheets and structure. There was warmth there. Hidden, maybe, but real.
Like he was trying not to smile.
Like he'd seen something familiar.
---
After the Crawford crew leaves, the café slowly exhales. The buzz dies down, the stress melts, and Marco collapses dramatically onto a stool.
"Well," he says, "we survived the empire."
"Barely," I mutter, checking the pastry case. "I think my soul left my body halfway through his inspection."
"I think his watch cost more than my car."
"Definitely more than my apartment," I say. "Combined with the rent for next month."
Marco groans. "Do you think we impressed them?"
"I mean, no one burst into flames," I say. "So that's a win."
He chuckles, and I try to laugh too, but my mind's elsewhere.
Back on the way he said thank you — soft, low, like the words meant something.
It shouldn't have stuck with me. He's probably just another overworked executive doing PR damage control. But something about him felt… off. Not bad off, just different.
Like he wasn't here just for the coffee.
---
By the time I clock out, I'm running on fumes.
The city air hits my face, cool and sharp, chasing away the espresso fog. The sky's pinking at the edges, that golden hour glow that makes everything look too cinematic for real life.
I scroll through my phone while walking — half looking for E's name, half pretending not to care that he still hasn't texted.
I try to remind myself that we don't owe each other anything. He's busy. I'm busy. The world doesn't stop spinning because some guy with perfect texting etiquette forgot to reply.
Still, it stings a little.
Then I remember that voice.
The one from earlier.
Deep, smooth — just enough gravel to make you lean closer.
My stomach twists.
No. It's impossible.
Right?
I stop walking and replay it in my head, the way he'd said, "Thank you."
The same cadence. The same pause before the words, like he was waiting to see if I'd recognize it.
I shake my head hard, like that'll dislodge the thought.
E could be anyone.
And that man? He's definitely someone with a corporate driver and health insurance that covers stress massages.
Not exactly the guy who teases me about overcaffeinating and losing my thesis outline for the fifth time.
And yet… my brain refuses to drop it.
---
That night, I can't sleep.
The day keeps looping in my head — the visit, the espresso, him.
I lie on my bed, phone in hand, the glow lighting up my ceiling.
Still no text.
I scroll through our old messages — the playful banter, the late-night confessions, the easy rhythm we fell into like it had always been there waiting.
And then my eyes land on his last words from the other night:
"Maybe I'll surprise you one day. Bring you coffee instead of texting about it".
My heart lurches.
No. He couldn't have meant—
No. That would be insane.
Wouldn't it?
I groan into my pillow. "You're spiraling, Sophie. Get a grip."
But it's too late. The thought's already lodged in my brain like an unwelcome caffeine high.
What if that was him?
What if the stranger in the suit and the man I've been texting are one and the same?
And if that's true… why didn't he say anything?
---
Stacy calls just as I'm about to drift off.
"You alive?" she asks. "I heard the Crawford people descended on your workplace like capitalist angels."
"Barely survived," I mumble. "Their boss looked like he came straight from a billionaire magazine cover."
"Oooh, was he hot?"
"Unfairly," I admit. "But like… the kind of hot that makes you question your skincare routine and tax bracket."
She cackles. "Please tell me you flirted."
"Stace, I could barely form words. I said something about 'zero nonsense' and he probably thinks I'm allergic to adjectives."
"Classic you. So, did E ever text back?"
My stomach tightens. "Not yet."
"Hmm. Maybe he's the mysterious brooding type."
"Or maybe he's just busy."
She hums knowingly. "Or maybe, Sophie Bennett, the universe has a plot twist lined up for you."
I roll my eyes even though she can't see it. "You watch too many rom-coms."
"And you live in one," she fires back. "Call me when you realize it."
She hangs up before I can answer, leaving me staring at the phone, her words echoing like background music to a story I don't fully understand yet.
---
Somewhere across the city, a man in a suit might be checking his phone too.
Maybe even smiling at a name he can't say out loud yet.
But here, in my tiny apartment with the hum of the fridge and the glow of streetlights on my wall, all I can do is wonder if fate really has that good of a sense of humor.
And if it does — God help me — I might just be in trouble.