It's been five days since the Crawford visit, and life at The Bean Scene has almost gone back to normal.
Well — as normal as it gets when your manager, Mr. Harris, is still basking in the afterglow of surviving a corporate inspection without combusting.
He keeps dropping phrases like "brand synergy" and "consumer engagement" into casual conversation now. I think he's high on validation.
Meanwhile, Marco's taken to calling me "Espresso Girl" because apparently, I make "intense eye contact" with anyone who orders double shots.
Whatever. He's dramatic.
The truth is, that whole visit — the suits, the tension, him — already feels like a weird dream.
A strange little glitch in an otherwise caffeine-soaked routine.
And the man in the suit?
Just another customer.
I tell myself that enough times that I almost believe it.
---
E's been texting again.
And honestly? It's been… easy.
Like slipping back into a conversation that never really ended.
He's funny in this quiet, clever way — all understatement and timing. The kind of humor that makes you snort into your coffee before realizing it's actually kind of brilliant.
E: Do you ever feel like your brain is made of browser tabs that won't close?
Me: Constantly. Except one of mine's playing music and I can't find where it's coming from.
E: That's your thesis. It's screaming softly in the background.
Me: Rude. Accurate, but rude.
Somehow, between his sarcasm and my caffeine meltdowns, the days start feeling lighter.
He asks about my classes, my coworkers, what book I'm reading this week.
He remembers things — little things — like the fact that I hate Mondays less when there's vanilla syrup in my latte, or that I once wanted to study how people fall in love for a living.
It's ridiculous how natural it feels.
How safe it feels.
---
Work stays hectic. The post-inspection buzz has everyone acting like we're one coffee bean away from fame.
Mr. Harris keeps muttering that "Crawford's people" might come back for a follow-up visit, which earns a collective groan from the staff.
I joke that I'll fake a sprained wrist that day. Marco says I'd still end up brewing with the other hand.
Still, there's something exciting about it too — like maybe we did something right for once.
Like maybe, somehow, we impressed the empire.
I don't think much about the man in the suit anymore.
He was polite. Intense. Just passing through.
People like him don't remember people like me.
---
By midweek, E and I have slipped into a rhythm that feels dangerously close to habit.
Morning check-ins, afternoon jokes, late-night messages when neither of us can sleep.
It's not romantic, not exactly. But it's more than friendly too.
There's this quiet understanding between us — like we both know how it feels to carry too much and still pretend everything's fine.
Last night, we ended up talking about dreams — the real kind, not the poetic kind.
E: I used to dream about flying. Now it's mostly about missing flights.
Me: That's the most corporate metaphor I've ever heard.
E: It's not a metaphor. I actually miss them. Too much work, not enough time.
Me: Then maybe you need a vacation.
E: Maybe I just need a reason.
Something about that line stuck with me.
Not in a way that made my brain spiral — just… quietly.
Like there's more to him than what he lets on.
And for once, I don't need to figure it out. I just like being part of the small part he shares.
---
Friday night finds me at my desk, surrounded by sticky notes and half-drunk coffee.
My brain's fried from studying, my phone buzzes again.
E: Surviving the week?
Me: Barely. Send caffeine or sympathy.
E: I'm better at one of those.
Me: Sympathy?
E: Coffee. But I can fake empathy for the right person.
Me: You're all heart, E.
E: Don't tell anyone. I have a reputation to protect.
I smile without meaning to.
It's stupid, how just a few words from him can pull me out of exhaustion.
Some people bring chaos.
E brings calm — like the quiet between songs, the pause before laughter.
And maybe that's what I like most. There's no pressure. No labels. Just a connection that feels… steady.
I don't overthink it. I don't analyze every word or wonder who he really is.
For once, I just let something good be simple.
---
The city hums outside my window, a low lullaby of traffic and life.
I curl up under my blanket, phone still glowing beside me.
He sends one last message before I fall asleep.
E: You make long days easier, Sophie.
Me: You too, E. Goodnight.
E: Sweet dreams, troublemaker.
And for the first time in a long time, I actually do.
No overthinking.
No guessing games.
Just warmth — steady and quiet — settling in like the aftertaste of good coffee.