LANA'S POV
The café was golden with afternoon light, and for a heartbeat, I didn't move.
Caleb stood near the door, still, uncertain, like he didn't want to ruin the moment or maybe didn't trust it to be real.
Neither did I.
But I walked toward him anyway.
Slow. Careful.
When I stopped just a few feet away, he let out a breath I wasn't sure he knew he'd been holding.
"Hey," I said, my voice quieter than I intended.
"Hi," he replied, eyes searching mine like they were looking for something he'd lost.
A silence settled between us. Not tense. Just full.
I crossed my arms, unsure if it was to guard my chest or to stop my hands from reaching out.
"You said you weren't coming back unless you could stay."
He nodded. "I meant that."
"So?" I asked, tilting my head slightly. "Why are you here, Caleb?"
His jaw clenched. Not in anger—more like restraint. Like he was still trying to say things the right way and not just say them.
He looked around the café once, eyes lingering on the counter, the little flower vase by the register, the smudged chalkboard Mira always forgot to erase.
And then his gaze returned to me. Direct. Steady.
"Because you're the only place that's ever felt like home."
I didn't flinch, but I felt the ache in my chest sharpen.
"That's a lot to place on someone you barely know," I said.
"I know you better than I know myself most days."
"And still… you left."
"I didn't leave," he said softly. "I unraveled. I tried to keep everything stitched together. My business. My past. The part of me that doesn't know how to do anything except fix things with silence."
I swallowed hard. "You can't fix people by disappearing."
"I know," he said again, this time quieter. "And I'm sorry."
The sunlight behind him was beginning to fade, casting him in soft shadow. He looked older than I remembered. Or maybe just more human.
I turned away, walked behind the counter, and poured myself another cup of coffee just to keep my hands busy.
"You know," I said over the sound of the machine hissing, "this café isn't some kind of escape hatch. You don't get to step into my life when it's convenient and walk out when it gets complicated."
"I know that too."
When I looked back at him, he was watching me like I was some kind of answer he hadn't expected to need.
"I didn't come here for comfort," he added. "I came to take responsibility. And maybe, if you'll let me, to start again."
I took a slow sip of the coffee. Still too hot. But it grounded me.
"What does starting again even mean to you?" I asked.
He walked forward now, closer—but not too close.
"It means I don't want to hide anymore. I don't want to pretend like you were just a quiet moment in my life. You weren't. You aren't."
"And the 'complicated' part?"
He looked down, then met my eyes again. "My father passed. That's why I left that night after the bracelet. That's why I didn't answer. We had… unfinished business. And I've spent the last two weeks dealing with the wreckage. Personal, financial, emotional."
I blinked. "I didn't know."
"I didn't tell you. That's on me. I didn't know how to let someone in while everything was falling apart."
I stayed silent for a moment.
Then finally asked, "What are you expecting from me, Caleb?"
He exhaled. "Nothing."
I raised an eyebrow.
"I mean it," he said. "I'm not here to ask you for anything. I'm here because I couldn't go another day wondering if I ruined something I barely had a chance to hold. I just wanted to see you. Speak to you. Apologize in person."
"And if that's all this is?"
"Then I'll go," he said simply. "And I'll still be grateful I got this far."
A quiet beat passed between us.
Then another.
And for once, I didn't try to outthink the moment.
I just let myself feel it.
"Do you want to sit?" I asked, gesturing to the corner table. Table three. The one he never picked. The one I always sat at when he didn't come in.
He smiled, soft and almost surprised. "Yeah. I'd like that."
I brought my coffee. Made him one too. And we sat, not across from each other, but side by side. Like equals. Like people who knew that words were fragile, but presence could be enough.
We didn't talk much after that.
Sometimes the silence says more than anything else.
He sipped. I sipped.
And for once, it didn't feel like waiting.
It felt like something beginning.
Not perfect. Not certain.
But real.
And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.