Burbank smelled like sunshine and espresso that morning. After weeks of missions, explosions, and tuxedos, the quiet clink of a coffee shop bell was almost surreal.
I pushed inside, the hum of soft indie music and chatter washing over me. The line was short, the barista smiling as she recognized me from too many late-night cappuccinos.
And then I saw her.
Stephanie Barnett. White coat draped over the back of her chair, dark hair falling in soft waves as she scrolled through notes on a tablet. Her posture was focused, but her eyes lifted just as I glanced her way.
For a second, neither of us spoke.
Then I smiled. "Looks like someone beat me to the last good table."
Her lips curved, dry but warm. "Well, in my defense, I got here first."
"Fair point." I gestured at her tablet. "Doctor?"
"Resident," she corrected, though pride glinted in her tone. "Surgical. Westside Medical."
"Ah." I grinned. "So you're one of the people who saves lives before breakfast. Makes me feel guilty for complaining about my coffee being too hot."
That earned me a real smile. "And you are?"
"Chuck Bartowski. I, uh… run a think tank."
Her eyebrows arched, impressed despite herself. "A think tank?"
"Yeah. Fancy name for… well, it's complicated." I shrugged. "We solve problems. Some big, some small. Depends on the week."
The barista called my name. I grabbed my latte, but instead of heading for the door, I slid into the chair opposite hers. "Mind if I join you?"
She hesitated, then gestured at the seat. "Go ahead."
We talked. About medicine, about Burbank, about how she'd ended up working alongside some of the best residents at Westside.
"Wait—Ellie Bartowski is your sister?" Stephanie said, eyes wide.
"Yeah," I said sheepishly. "You know her?"
"She's brilliant. And Devon… well, everyone at the hospital knows Devon." She smirked. "Perfect hair, perfect bedside manner. Half the interns have a crush on him."
I grinned. "That sounds like him."
"You're their Chuck?" she asked, teasing.
I laughed. "I'm their Chuck."
That made her laugh too, the sound lingering longer than the coffee steam.
By the time we parted, numbers had been exchanged. No pressure, no expectation. Just the spark of possibility.
Walking out into the California sun, I caught myself smiling. For the first time in weeks, it wasn't Carmichael's smile. It was mine.