LANA'S POV
They say nothing good happens after 8 p.m.
I used to believe that, until the night he walked into my café.
It was the kind of Thursday night that had me reconsidering everything: my life choices, my finances, my dreams, and most of all, why I ever thought running a small coffee shop in a busy city would be "fun."
I glanced at the clock, 7:48 p.m. Twelve minutes until closing. The lights outside the window had started to dim, the rush-hour foot traffic had slowed to a quiet crawl, and the espresso machine had already begun its end-of-day rinse cycle.
I should've been relieved. I should've been locking the front door, kicking off my sneakers, and heading upstairs to my tiny apartment over the café.
But of course, the universe had other plans.
A ping from the mobile order app startled me. My heart sank.
"One more?" I muttered, dragging a hand through my ponytail. "Seriously?"
It wasn't unusual for someone to place a last-minute order. What was unusual was the name attached to it:
Caleb Stone.
Triple hazelnut mocha. Extra whipped cream. Cinnamon swirl pastry on the side.
I raised an eyebrow.
That's a bold order for 8 p.m. Either he was overworked or slightly unhinged. Maybe both. I didn't recognize the name, which was surprising. In a business like mine, you learn to memorize faces and names faster than you remember your own password.
Still, I moved through the motions. I steamed the milk, pulled the espresso shot, and swirled the whipped cream with the precision of someone who had made over 2,000 cups of coffee in the last six months alone. As for the cinnamon swirl, I grabbed the flakiest one from the case, popped it into a warm bag, and set everything neatly on the counter.
The bell above the door jingled, and I looked up.
And that was the first time I saw him.
He didn't walk, he entered, like the doorway had been carved to frame him. Tall, sharp suit, perfect posture. His dark eyes scanned the café with the casual calculation of a man who noticed everything but revealed nothing. There was a coolness to him, the kind that made you want to lean in and figure out what he was hiding.
I found myself standing a little straighter behind the counter.
"Triple hazelnut mocha?" he asked, his voice smooth but not showy. He stopped just short of the register, like he didn't quite belong in this world of chalkboards and pastries, but was willing to pretend.
"That's me," I replied, sliding the drink across to him. "And your cinnamon swirl."
He picked up the cup, took one sip, and paused.
"That good?" I teased.
He nodded slowly. "Better."
There was a beat of silence, then he looked around the café.
"You run this place alone?" he asked.
"For now." I wiped my hands on a towel. "Until I can afford to hire someone who won't eat all the inventory."
He smiled, not a wide grin, but a subtle twitch at the corner of his lips. The kind of smile you notice more than most full-on laughs.
"I'm Caleb," he said, extending his hand.
"Lana," I replied, shaking it.
His grip was firm. Warm. Businessman hands, but not soft. Like he knew how to take control, but didn't need to prove it.
He didn't let go right away, either.
"I just moved my company into the building down the street," he said. "Been living on vending machine coffee for two weeks. This is a step up."
"Well," I said, trying not to sound flustered, "you're always welcome."
He took another sip of his mocha, this time slower. "Then I might just make this a habit."
And then he walked out.
Just like that.
No flirtation. No lingering goodbye. Just a quiet exit that somehow left the room feeling emptier than it had before.
I stood there for a full minute after the door closed.
What just happened?
—
The next morning started like any other, alarm, coffee, emails. I wore my navy apron, tucked my curls into a loose bun, and unlocked the door at exactly 7 a.m.
Business was steady. The usual crowd. Mr. Donovan and his crossword puzzle. Tessa and her gluten-free muffin obsession. A couple of college students typing frantically over their lattes.
By mid-afternoon, I had all but forgotten about Caleb Stone.
Until I saw him again.
This time, he didn't place an order online. He walked in at 5:43 p.m., as if he'd always belonged here, and nodded like we'd already established some kind of unspoken routine.
"You again," I said, smiling as I wiped down the espresso machine.
"Hope I'm not too early this time," he replied, slipping his phone into the pocket of his tailored slacks.
"Nope. Just in time to rescue me from folding napkins."
"Triple hazelnut mocha?" he asked.
"You really don't believe in sleep, do you?"
"Sleep's overrated. Coffee, however..."
"...is not." I finished his sentence for him, laughing.
He watched me make his drink this time. I could feel his gaze, curious, focused, maybe even impressed, though he didn't say so.
"Do you ever take a break, Lana?" he asked, once I handed him the cup.
"Running a small business means breaks are a luxury."
"You know," he said, "my company's planning an all-night team sprint next weekend. Could use a good supply of caffeine."
I raised an eyebrow. "Are you offering me a contract or an invitation to overwork myself?"
"Both," he replied with a soft grin.
That was the first time I blushed.
And the first time I wondered if this man was more than just a customer.
—
Over the next few weeks, he came in every evening. Like clockwork. Always just before closing, always the same order.
We didn't flirt, not exactly, but there was an ease between us, a kind of casual intimacy that had no name yet.
He'd ask about the café, and I'd ask about his company. I learned that he ran a growing tech startup with a dozen employees and a relentless schedule.
He learned that I had opened Lana's Brew two years ago with money saved from a dead-end office job and tips from waitressing.
He never gave away too much. I never asked too deeply.
And yet, something was happening.
One night, after the last customer left and the lights dimmed low, Caleb lingered by the counter longer than usual.
"You ever feel like you're building something," he said, "but you're not sure what it's really for yet?"
The question was unexpected.
I glanced at him, unsure if he was talking about his work or his life.
"Sometimes," I said softly. "But I think... if it feels right, it probably matters. Even if we can't name it yet."
He looked at me then, really looked. Like I'd said something he hadn't realized he needed to hear.
"I like talking to you, Lana."
I smiled. "I like talking to you too, Caleb."
Nothing happened that night. No kiss. No romantic music. Just silence, understanding, and two cups of coffee that had gone cold.
But it was a beginning.
A small one.
A quiet one.
The kind that sneaks up on you.
The kind that changes everything before you even realize it has.