LANA'S POV
The morning after the gala I never attended, the café smelled like cardamom and second chances.
I came in early, again, not because I needed to, but because something about the quiet before sunrise reminded me that I was still here. Still standing. Still moving forward, even if my heart hadn't fully caught up.
The streets were still damp from last night's rain. The wind carried that soft, metallic scent that came after a storm. I unlocked the doors, turned on the lights, and let the hum of machines and ovens fill the emptiness.
I didn't expect anything extraordinary that day.
And for the most part, nothing was.
We had a lull in the late morning. Mira was humming a Taylor Swift song under her breath while sorting the pastry trays.
The regulars sat in their usual corners, Mr. Bennett with his crossword puzzle, the two college girls sharing one giant laptop screen, and the quiet woman who never ordered anything but black tea and always tipped too much.
I liked these rhythms. I relied on them.
Until the rhythm shifted.
The bell above the door jingled, and I looked up, pure habit at this point.
I didn't recognize the man who walked in, but he wore the kind of tailored suit that had Stone & Co. written all over it.
"Hi," he said. "I'm here on behalf of Mr. Stone."
Of course.
I wiped my hands and stepped forward. "And?"
"He asked me to deliver this."
The man extended a small, sleek black envelope. Not another invitation. No, this one was heavier. The kind of envelope that held weight without needing size.
I took it and nodded. "Thank you."
He gave a polite smile, glanced around the café as if cataloging it for someone else, and left.
Mira hovered the second the door shut. "What is it?"
I stared at the envelope. I didn't open it right away. Instead, I tucked it under the register and went back to pouring oat milk into someone's latte.
She groaned. "You're really going to do this?"
"I don't need another mystery from him today."
"But what if it's a love letter?"
I raised a brow. "Have you met him?"
She smirked. "I've seen what he looks like. That counts."
---
I waited until the end of the day to open it. After the café emptied out. After Mira left with a look that told me she'd be texting me for updates within the hour.
I sat in the back room, lights dimmed, apron folded on the chair beside me, and finally slipped my finger under the seal.
Inside was a handwritten note.
Not typed.
Not drafted by an assistant.
Just ink and uncertainty.
> Lana,
I didn't look for you last night at the gala.
Because I knew you wouldn't come.
And I don't blame you.
You asked me not to return until I could stay. And the truth is, I still don't know if I can. But I'm trying. I'm unraveling parts of my life I should have dealt with years ago. It's messy. It's slow.
But I keep finding my way back to one constant.
You.
I know you won't wait forever. Maybe you shouldn't. But I didn't want to vanish again without letting you know.
This time, I'm not running. Just… clearing the path.
Yours,
Caleb
I read it twice. Three times.
Then folded it carefully and slid it between the pages of my planner, next to the scribbled coffee recipes and payroll notes.
It didn't change everything.
But it softened something.
---
The next week was steady. Normal.
And in that normal, I found pieces of peace I hadn't realized I missed.
I created a new pastry: chai caramel braid. Mira loved it. Said it tasted like November and forgiveness.
We painted the back wall of the café with a soft forest green. A change I'd been putting off for months.
And I bought flowers again, fresh ones. Peonies, lilacs, lavender. I didn't wait for someone to bring them to me.
That Saturday, I sat by the window during a lull, sipping my own vanilla rose latte. The same window where I used to wait, whether I admitted it or not.
I wasn't waiting anymore.
But I wasn't closed off either.
There was a difference.
---
That afternoon, as the sun began to dip below the rooftops, casting golden light across the floor, the bell above the door rang again.
I looked up, expecting nothing.
And there he was.
Caleb Stone.
In jeans and a simple gray sweater. No suit. No tie. Just a man. A little tired. A little less perfect.
And entirely real.
He stepped inside.
Didn't speak.
Didn't move toward me.
Just waited.
And this time, I stood first.