It's official: I'm doomed.
Because ever since E. said my name that night — in a text, no less — my brain has turned into a marshmallow. Soft, sweet, and absolutely useless.
Every time my phone buzzes, I flinch like a teenager waiting for a crush to reply. My focus has evaporated. My thesis draft is sitting in a sad, neglected folder titled "emotional_regulation_FINAL_v8_THIS_ONE_REALLY_FINAL.docx."
Spoiler alert: it's not final.
Instead, my mind keeps wandering back to him — the mystery man who somehow makes texting feel like the safest kind of chaos.
I told Stacy I wasn't getting attached.
Stacy laughed so hard she nearly choked on her cold brew.
---
By mid-morning, I'm behind the counter at The Bean Scene, pretending to be a functioning adult. The espresso machine is hissing like it's judging me, and Marco's whistling something off-key.
The café is warm and cozy — sunlight spilling across mismatched tables, indie music humming low, the air thick with roasted beans and ambition. A couple of college students are hunched over laptops, a middle-aged man reads the paper in his usual corner, and Mrs. Lang from down the street is lecturing her muffin about calories again.
Just another day in caffeine paradise.
"Sophie!" Marco calls over the noise. "You're spacing out again!"
"i'm not!"
"You steamed the milk twice."
I look down. Yep. The pitcher in my hand is suspiciously hot. "Maybe it needed extra warmth?"
He laughs. "Or maybe you're thinking about your mystery boyfriend again."
"Not my boyfriend," I say quickly. Too quickly.
"Uh-huh." He grins. "You're glowing, Bennett. The last time you smiled like that, we accidentally over-caffeinated a bridal party."
"Trauma does weird things to people."
"Sure. So, when do we get to meet him?"
I pour the milk into a cup, focusing very hard on not spilling. "When I find out he's not a murderer."
"Fair," Marco says. "Though I'd bet my tips he's at least attractive. No one texts you for a week straight without being a little into you."
That makes me pause. My heart does that weird flutter again.
Attractive. Into me. Words I haven't let myself associate with anyone in a while.
Before I can spiral, Stacy bursts through the door like caffeine personified. "Good morning, emotionally unavailable barista!"
I groan. "Please don't start."
"Oh, I'm starting." She drops her tote bag onto the counter. "You're texting him, aren't you?"
"Technically, he's texting me."
She gasps. "He texted first today? That's boyfriend behavior."
"He asked if I've had breakfast."
"And?"
"I said coffee counts."
She gives me a look. "And he said?"
"That I'm predictable."
"Oh my God, he's flirting with you." She leans in, eyes gleaming. "How are you not screaming?"
"Because I have self-control."
"Barely," she says. "You've been smiling at your phone like it proposed."
"Not you too," I groan.
"Babe," she says softly, her tone shifting from teasing to tender, "you deserve to smile again. Don't fight it so hard."
That hits me right in the chest.
I shrug, pretending to fuss with the napkin holder. "I just… don't want to mess it up. Or worse, find out it's all in my head."
She squeezes my arm. "Then stop thinking, and just enjoy it. You've earned something good."
I exhale slowly. "Yeah. Maybe I have."
---
By afternoon, the café quiets down. The post-lunch lull — my favorite time. The espresso machine sighs, the sunlight fades to amber, and the world slows down.
I check my phone between wiping tables.
E: "Survived the morning chaos?"
Me: "Barely. Milk machine hates me."
E: "Maybe it's jealous of your latte art."
Me: "I knew you were secretly sentimental."
E: "Don't ruin my reputation."
Me: "Too late. You're officially a softie."
E: "Careful, Bennett. I could still fire back."
Me: "Try me."
He doesn't reply immediately, and I hate how aware I am of that pause — the little dots dancing on my screen, then disappearing, then reappearing.
E: "You'd win."
I bite my lip, smiling at my phone like an idiot.
God, he's smooth. Not in the over-rehearsed, player kind of way. Just… quietly confident.
The kind of man who knows exactly what he's saying and means it.
It's dangerous. Addictive. Like espresso, only worse for my sanity.
---
After my shift, I linger by the window, watching the last few customers leave. The city outside glows — gold, pink, alive. My phone buzzes again.
E: "You off work?"
Me: "Yeah. Just closed up. You?"
E: "Still pretending to be productive."
Me: "Ah, the illusion of efficiency. Classic."
E: "What can I say? It's a talent."
Me: "You should teach a class."
E: "Only if you attend."
I laugh out loud. "You're ridiculous," I whisper to myself.
E: "Did you just call me ridiculous again?"
I blink.
Me: "Wait, are you psychic now?"
E: "Just perceptive."
Me: "Creepy, but okay."
E: "Admit it, you like it."
Me: "Maybe a little."
The pause that follows feels charged, warm.
E: "Maybe I'll surprise you one day. Bring you coffee instead of texting about it."
I freeze, fingers hovering over the keyboard.
Is that a joke? Or is he serious?
Me: "You don't even know where I work."
E: "Don't I?"
I frown at the screen, my pulse quickening just a little.
He's probably kidding. Probably.
Still, my heart does that flutter thing again, the one I've tried to rationalize as caffeine overdose but know isn't.
---
Later, at home, I sit cross-legged on my bed, half-grading thesis notes, half-refreshing the app.
E hasn't messaged again since that last one.
It's fine. Normal. Adults don't obsess over text replies.
I set my phone down, brush my hair into a bun, pick up a pen.
Then pick the phone back up again.
Nothing.
God, I'm hopeless.
I flop back against my pillows and stare at the ceiling. The city hums outside my window. Somewhere out there, E is probably sitting behind some glowing screen too, sipping his fancy disappointment coffee, making someone else's day better just by existing.
And me? I'm just a girl trying to make sense of how a stranger managed to slip past every wall I've built since Liam.
When I finally close my eyes, I tell myself it's just texting. Just lighthearted fun.
But deep down, I know better.
Because every time he calls me Sophie in that teasing, effortless way, something inside me wakes up — something I thought heartbreak had permanently shut down.
And if I'm not careful, I might actually start believing in this whole "moving on" thing.