It's been four days since E. messaged me, and my screen time has officially gone from "slightly concerning" to "are you okay?" territory.
We've been texting every day — not constantly, but enough to make me check my phone with a stupid grin every time it buzzes. Our conversations are like espresso shots: short, sharp, addictive.
He's witty but subtle, confident without the usual dating-app ego. He asks questions that make me think — about my thesis, my favorite type of coffee art, the books stacked beside my bed. When I asked what he does for work, he said:
E: "Mostly boring things involving spreadsheets, angry phone calls, and pretending to sleep."
I laughed so hard I snorted into my latte.
There's something so… real about him. No flexing, no weird pickup lines, no random gym selfies. Just calm, clever conversation and humor that sneaks up on you.
Which, of course, makes me suspicious.
Nobody is this normal online. Not unless they're hiding a cult. Or a wife. Or, I don't know, a secret double life as a billionaire.
But that's impossible. Right?
---
The Bean Scene is busier than usual, which is saying something. The morning rush looks like a stampede of caffeine-deprived zombies. Marco and I move in perfect chaos — I steam milk, he takes orders, Stacy texts me from the corner booth even though she's literally right there.
Stacy: "Has he sent a selfie yet?"
Me: "No."
Stacy: "Suspicious."
Me: "He's probably ugly."
Stacy: "You'd still flirt with him."
Me: "Absolutely."
She grins at me from her seat and raises her coffee cup in salute.
Marco catches my eye as he wipes the counter. "Still texting your mystery man?"
"Maybe," I say, pouring milk into a cup. "Why?"
He shrugs. "You've been smiling at your phone like it proposed."
"I have not."
He arches a brow. "You literally just did."
"Shut up," I mutter, trying to hide my grin.
He laughs and moves to the register. "So, when are we meeting this guy?"
"When I find out he's not secretly collecting toes."
"High standards. I like it."
The door chimes and a tall man in a suit walks in. Marco lowers his voice. "Hey, rumor is one of the upper execs from the parent company is visiting soon. Maybe even the big boss himself."
I blink. "Wait, the big boss? Like, the owner-owner?"
He nods. "Yup. Some rebranding thing. Apparently, he owns, like, half the city."
"Wow," I say, pretending to care while I froth milk. "Must be nice to own things instead of just spilling them."
Marco snorts. "Hey, aim high, Sophie. Maybe your mystery man is secretly a billionaire."
I roll my eyes. "Yeah, and I'm secretly a mermaid."
---
That night, I'm sitting cross-legged on my bed, surrounded by textbooks, when my phone buzzes again. My stomach does that annoying little twist.
E: "Be honest. How many cups of coffee do you drink a day?"
I smile.
Me: "Define 'day.'"
E: "Between waking up and pretending to sleep."
Me: "Then… maybe six? Seven if I'm stressed."
E: "So always."
Me: "You get me."
E: "I'm starting to think you might actually be 90% caffeine."
Me: "And 10% chaos."
E: "That explains a lot."
I laugh, nearly spilling my tea.
Me: "What about you? How many coffees do you drink?"
E: "Three. But they're the expensive kind that taste like disappointment and success."
I snort.
Me: "You're ridiculous."
E: "I've been called worse."
Me: "Such as?"
E: "Workaholic. Control freak. Emotionally unavailable. You know, fun things."
That last message lingers. It's self-deprecating, but there's a shadow in it — like he's not joking entirely.
Me: "Well, at least you're self-aware. That's attractive."
E: "You think so?"
Me: "Better than the guys who quote Elon Musk in their bios."
E: "You've seen those too?"
Me: "Tragically."
E: "Remind me to never download that app again."
Me: "Too late. You're stuck with me now."
E: "There are worse fates."
My heart does the thing again. The stupid fluttery one.
---
Over the next few days, our messages become a rhythm — my mornings start with his "how's the caffeine count today?" and my nights end with his dry goodnights.
I catch myself rereading old chats during study breaks. His humor gets under my skin, quiet but addictive.
I know better than to fall for someone I've never met, but there's something about him — something steady. A kind of calm I didn't realize I needed.
Even his typing pauses are deliberate. Like he actually thinks before replying.
E: "What are you writing your thesis on again?"
Me: "Emotional regulation in high-stress work environments."
E: "That's ironic."
Me: "Why?"
E: "I could use a lesson or two."
Me: "Can't help you until you admit you have emotions."
E: "Touché."
I smile at the screen. For someone who claims to be "emotionally unavailable," he's surprisingly open — at least in text.
---
By the end of the week, I'm sitting on the café's back steps, taking my break, phone in hand. The autumn air smells like roasted beans and rain.
E: "You ever notice how everyone rushes through coffee like it's a race?"
Me: "Yeah. I guess no one knows how to slow down anymore."
E: "Do you?"
Me: "I'm trying."
E: "Then you're already doing better than most."
That one hits a little deeper than expected.
For a while, I just stare at his words, the screen glowing softly against the evening sky.
---
When I get home, Stacy's sprawled across my couch, eating my popcorn.
"So," she says, mouth full, "you've been smiling at your phone again."
I groan. "Do you have cameras in my house?"
"I am your best friend. I have psychic access."
I flop down beside her. "He's just… different, Stace."
"Oh no," she gasps. "You like him."
"I don't!"
"You totally do!"
"Fine, maybe a little," I admit, covering my face with a pillow.
She squeals. "Finally! My baby's catching feelings again!"
"Please never say that sentence again."
She smirks. "So when are you meeting him?"
I pause. "We haven't really talked about it."
She frowns. "Why not?"
"I don't know. Maybe I like it this way. No pressure. No awkward first date energy."
"Or maybe you're scared."
I sigh. "Yeah. Maybe."
Because she's right. I am scared.
Scared that meeting him will ruin it. That the connection — this strange, electric ease — will fade once reality intrudes.
---
Later that night, I'm lying in bed with my laptop half-open, the glow of my phone soft against the dark. Another message pops up.
E: "You still awake?"
Me: "Unfortunately."
E: "Insomnia?"
Me: "Overthinking. Occupational hazard."
E: "Want me to distract you?"
Me: "What do you have in mind?"
E: "Tell me something you love that isn't coffee."
I think for a moment.
Me: "Rainy mornings. The smell of old books. The first sip of a latte I actually made right."
E: "That's oddly specific."
Me: "Occupational hazard."
E: "I like quiet places. The kind where people don't need to talk to understand each other."
Me: "That's… nice."
E: "Don't tell anyone. It ruins my image."
I smile.
Me: "Your secret's safe."
E: "Good. Now get some sleep, chaos girl."
Me: "Goodnight, mystery man."
E: "Sweet dreams, Sophie."
My breath catches a little at my name — the first time he's used it.
When I finally close my eyes, I realize it's the first time in months I've gone to bed smiling instead of overthinking.
And I have no idea that the man behind those texts is a lot closer than I think.