Ethans POV
The espresso still lingers.
Not the taste — that sharp, smoky hit that fades after a few minutes — but the feeling.
Warm. Grounding. A little too real.
Her kind of real.
I shouldn't still be thinking about it. About her. About the way her eyes lifted to meet mine, steady and curious, before darting away like she wasn't supposed to look too long. About the way she said zero nonsense and made it sound like both a challenge and a compliment.
But it's there, threading quietly through the rest of my day — her voice, her laugh, that spark I haven't been able to name.
---
Back at headquarters, the world resets to its usual rhythm.
Fluorescent lights. Polished tables. Too many people speaking in the same confident tone.
"Mr. Crawford," Jenna says, walking beside me, "the Bean Scene team sent their feedback. They said your visit was… uplifting."
I raise an eyebrow. "Uplifting? I barely spoke."
She shrugs. "Apparently, presence counts. The staff morale spiked, customer reviews mentioned you by name, and our social impressions are up by twenty percent."
"Good," I say automatically, though my mind drifts.
Staff morale. I wonder if she smiled when they told her the news. I wonder if she thought of me — even just for a moment — the way I can't seem to stop thinking about her.
The boardroom's already full when I enter. Marketing slides flash on the screen, buzzwords stacked like a second language I used to care about mastering.
I play my part — quiet, sharp, detached — but the space between presentations blurs.
Because lately, every pause, every silence feels filled with her.
---
Over the next few weeks, the messages continue.
Late at night, early in the morning — small things, nothing remarkable on the surface. A shared complaint about deadlines. A sarcastic debate about who makes the better coffee.
Somehow, it feels… grounding. Effortless.
I've spent years surrounded by people who measure every word, every glance.
But Sophie — she speaks like she's not trying to impress anyone. Just connect.
And maybe that's why I can't let it go.
Some nights I catch myself smiling at my phone, thumbs hovering over the keyboard longer than necessary. I tell myself to keep it simple, not to cross that invisible line between curiosity and attachment.
But then she says something that disarms me — a joke, a thought, something deeply honest — and I fall right back in.
---
Three weeks pass before the next visit is approved.
Jenna brings the file to my office first thing in the morning. "We've scheduled your return to The Bean Scene," she says. "Same staff, same setup. You want me to prep marketing this time?"
I look up from the report I'm pretending to read.
"No. Keep it low-key. Observational only."
Her brow lifts. "Understood. Any particular reason?"
I hesitate just long enough for it to mean something.
"It's the kind of place that works better when no one's watching too hard."
She studies me for a second — perceptive, but smart enough not to ask. "I'll make it happen."
When she leaves, I glance at the calendar.
Three weeks.
That's how long it's been since I last saw her — not as a profile picture or a message bubble, but in person.
Three weeks since the moment she looked up and didn't recognize me, and I realized I didn't want her to. Not yet.
I tell myself it's strategy. A clean separation between business and whatever this is.
But it's a lie I've grown comfortable living with.
Because every day, every message, every shared laugh only confirms what I already know —
I'm in deeper than I meant to be.
And the next visit?
I'm not sure I'm ready for what it might change.