The crisp morning air carried the promise of change as I walked toward Sweet Indulgence. Thoughts of last night's dinner still lingered—Shawn's easy charm, Tyler's quiet intensity, the way they each, in their own way, stirred something long dormant inside me. It was unsettling. And exhilarating.
As I reached the café, I noticed a small package resting neatly at the doorstep. It was wrapped in kraft paper, tied with twine, and bore no return address. Only my name was written on it—in elegant, flowing handwriting that stopped me in my tracks.
I glanced up and down the street. Empty. Just a few early risers and the low hum of distant traffic. Still, the package felt... intimate.
Inside, with the early light pouring through the windows, I set it on the counter and untied the twine carefully. Beneath the wrapping was a leather-bound journal—worn and weathered, with soft edges and a faint scent of old parchment and time. The initials "T.S." were embossed near the bottom corner. Between its pages lay a white card, simply printed:
Tyler Sinclair
For the stories you have yet to tell.
I traced the lettering with my fingertips, heat rising to my cheeks. The gesture felt personal—almost too personal. As I turned the blank pages, I felt something stir. It wasn't just a gift. It was an invitation. A challenge. As if Tyler had seen something in me I hadn't yet dared to confront.
Before I could sink too deep into thought, the bell above the door jingled, signaling the start of the morning rush. I tucked the journal away and pushed thoughts of Tyler—and whatever this gift meant—to the back of my mind.
The café soon filled with its usual energy—laughter, clinking cups, the low murmur of comfort and routine. But my eyes kept drifting toward the counter where the journal rested, its quiet presence like a secret waiting to be opened.
By mid-afternoon, Elise burst through the door with her usual whirlwind energy, cheeks flushed from the breeze.
"So," she said, sliding onto the stool at the counter, "how was dinner with your two very charming admirers?"
"Admirers?" I arched an eyebrow.
"Oh, come on." She rolled her eyes dramatically. "They were practically dueling with smiles last night. You can't tell me you didn't feel it."
I laughed, a little too quickly. "You're imagining things."
"I'm observant," she corrected, propping her chin on her hand. "And I've seen the way they look at you—like you're the sun and they've both just stepped out of the dark."
I paused, letting her words settle. "It's not that simple. Tyler's... intense. There's something about him I can't quite figure out. And Shawn... he's warm, grounding. I feel like I can breathe around him."
"Maybe you don't need to figure it out right now," Elise said gently. "You've been through hell, Ann. You don't have to choose or define anything just yet. Maybe you just need to let yourself feel again."
Before I could reply, the door chimed once more.
Shawn stepped inside, sunlight catching the edges of his brown hair. His smile was steady, sincere. When his eyes found mine, something settled in my chest—warmth, familiarity.
"Ann," he greeted. "Do you have a minute?"
"Sure," I said, stepping out from behind the counter. Elise gave me a mischievous grin as she retreated to her table, all too pleased with the unfolding scene.
Shawn led me to a quiet corner, away from the bustle. His expression had shifted—less playful, more focused.
"I've been meaning to ask," he began. "Would you consider partnering with us for an upcoming awareness campaign?"
I blinked. "Awareness campaign? At the hospital?"
He nodded. "It's still in the early planning stages, but we want to focus on mental health and community healing. And Sweet Indulgence... this place is more than a café. It's become a haven. I've seen how people come in here and leave a little lighter. That's rare."
His words caught me off guard—so earnest, so unexpected. "I don't know what to say."
"Say you'll think about it," he said gently. "We could host some small events, maybe wellness days. It's about connection. About healing. I think this place could be a bridge between the clinical and the emotional. And I think you're the reason that's even possible."
I swallowed, suddenly unsure how to respond. Not just to the opportunity—but to the way he was looking at me.
Like I mattered.
And for the first time in a long while, I wondered if maybe... I did.