LANA'S POV
The next day, Caleb didn't come in.
It was the first time in two weeks that his presence didn't linger in the evening air like warm espresso.
At 7:50 p.m., I found myself staring at the door, waiting for the bell to chime. But it didn't.
By 8:05, I was locking up, telling myself he was just busy. Maybe his company's late-night sprint finally caught up with him. Maybe he needed sleep. Maybe.
I shook my head. He's a customer, Lana. You own a coffee shop, not a heart.
But I still turned my phone screen over twice that night, half-hoping he'd placed another late order. He hadn't.
And yet, somehow, I couldn't sleep either.
---
The following afternoon, I was prepping a new batch of muffins when the bell rang and I instinctively turned toward the door, expecting, or maybe hoping, to see him.
Instead, it was a woman.
Tall. Red heels. Designer coat. Lipstick that could cut glass.
She stepped in like she owned the ground she walked on, her eyes sweeping over the cozy café with something between amusement and distaste.
When her gaze landed on me, she smiled, a practiced, polished curve of lips that felt more like a business card than a greeting.
"I'm looking for Lana."
"You found her," I said, wiping my hands on my apron. "Can I help you?"
She took a moment, surveying me like I was an item on a shelf she wasn't sure she wanted to buy.
"I'm Helena Roth. Caleb Stone's executive assistant."
I froze, just for a moment, but it was enough.
"Okay…" I said cautiously. "Is he alright?"
"Oh, yes. Quite. Mr. Stone asked me to personally deliver a message. He regrets missing his usual visit and will return in a few days once he clears his schedule."
I tried not to look too surprised. Or disappointed.
"Thank you. That's… thoughtful of him."
Helena nodded, as if concluding a transaction. Then she hesitated, as though something unspoken hovered behind her perfectly arched eyebrows.
"You should know," she said, her voice lowering just slightly, "Mr. Stone doesn't usually frequent places like this."
"Places like what?" I asked.
Her smile didn't falter. "Cafés that don't offer reservations."
And with that, she turned on her heel and left.
The bell chimed again.
I stood there for a long time after she left, not sure what had just happened.
A warning? A test? Or was it just what it looked likea message from a powerful man's assistant reminding me of the difference between his world and mine?
I wasn't sure.
But I was sure of one thing:
She didn't like me.
And for some reason, that made me like Caleb more.
---
When he came back two nights later, he looked tired.
Not the kind of tired you fix with coffee. The kind that sits in your bones and steals something behind your eyes.
"You okay?" I asked, sliding his drink across the counter.
He nodded, but the nod was too slow.
"Rough week?"
He gave a low laugh. "Rough life."
I didn't press him. Some men wear silence like a suit. Caleb wore his like armor.
But that night, instead of leaving with his mocha, he sat.
For the first time.
At the corner table near the window, the one with the chipped leg and the view of the street.
He pulled out a sleek laptop, opened a file, and started working like the café was his second office.
I watched from the counter, pretending not to notice the way his brow furrowed as he typed, or the way he ran a hand through his dark hair when something frustrated him.
He didn't look like the men who sat in suits on business panels or polished Instagram feeds. He looked… real. Exhausted. Brilliant. Human.
At 9:02, when I should've been closing up, I brought him another mocha, this time on the house.
He looked up, surprised.
"I didn't order another one."
"You didn't have to."
He stared at the drink for a long moment, then at me. "Why?"
"Because you look like someone who doesn't ask for help even when he needs it."
His lips parted slightly, and for a heartbeat, he didn't speak.
Then, quietly, "You don't know me."
"No," I said gently. "But I'm starting to."
He looked at me again, differently this time. Like he was weighing something in his mind, something that had nothing to do with coffee or café hours.
Finally, he nodded once, slowly. And sipped.
---
From then on, it became a pattern.
Caleb came in. He worked. He talked, just a little more each time. I learned that he hated cold offices, liked his coffee extra sweet because it reminded him of his childhood, and had an allergy to cats.
He never mentioned a girlfriend. Never mentioned his family. And I never asked.
But some nights, when the air turned cold and the street outside quieted to a hush, it felt like we were the only two people in the city.
Like the world had dimmed just enough to let us exist in our own quiet orbit.
---
A week later, he walked in earlier than usual.
"Busy day?" I asked, already reaching for his cup.
"Cancel that order," he said, slipping off his coat. "I want something else today."
I raised an eyebrow. "We have tea. Sandwiches. A mean caramel latte."
He shook his head, smiling faintly. "No. I want to talk."
I blinked. "Okay. Talk about what?"
He paused, leaning against the counter.
"Why you really opened this place."
I stared at him. No one ever asked that. Not even my closest friends.
"Honestly?" I said.
"Please."
I looked down at the counter, then back at him. "Because I was tired of being invisible."
He didn't respond, but his silence invited me to continue.
"I worked office jobs for years. Answered phones, scheduled meetings, wore the blazer, smiled at everyone.
But no one ever saw me. Not really. Just the role. The name tag. The assistant. Then one day, I realized, I didn't want to climb anyone else's ladder. I wanted to build my own."
He nodded slowly. "So you built this."
I nodded. "It's not much. But it's mine."
He was quiet for a long moment.
And then he said something I didn't expect.
"People see you here, Lana."
Our eyes met.
And for the first time, I wondered what he saw when he looked at me.
Not the café owner.
Not the barista.
Just… me.
---
Later that night, after he'd left, I cleaned the counter slower than usual.
The espresso machine hissed one last time, and the silence that followed felt heavier.
I found myself standing at the door, watching the sidewalk.
Wondering if a customer was still just a customer.
Wondering why the idea of him not showing up tomorrow felt a little too much like loneliness.