Morning came too early, dragging sunlight and regret across my window.
I grabbed for my phone first a bad move, obviously. No text messages. Just the quiet burn of Ethan's last one, at 2:27 a.m.
It was real, Tessa. That's all.
I didn't appreciate that it had felt like a pulse under my skin.
I had arrived at the office, armed with caffeine, concealer, and denial. The plan was simple: focus, unnecessary conversation avoidance, and under no circumstances whatsoever consider Ethan Hale.
Except that fate, in its infinite and unforgiving wisdom, had no use for my plans.
The minute I stepped into the lobby, there he was again.
Leaning against the reception desk, wearing that infuriating half-grin that guaranteed he knew exactly how flustered I'd gotten.
He was holding a cup tray with two coffees.
"Morning," he said, tone easy and smooth.
"You're persistent," I said, setting down my bag with care.
"Persistent," he said, "is one of those words for consistent."
I crossed my arms. "Or for obsessive."
He chuckled, that low quiet sound that bruised my chest. "Guess it depends on who's asking."
I snorted. "You didn't have to come all the way out here for a scarf."
He handed it back to me my beige one, folded in half and cinched around with a wee ribbon. A ribbon.
"You left it here," he said. "I thought you'd appreciate getting it back."
"Most people would send an errand boy."
"Most people aren't me."
We stood there for a minute or two, just looking at each other the kind of quiet that hums, the kind of song we both already know the words to.
Finally, I took the scarf, trying not to brush against his fingers. "Thank you."
"You're welcome." He nodded at the coffee cups. "One's for you, anyway."
I glared. "You knew I had it that way?"
"No guessing necessary. You take honey in your coffee instead of sugar. You said so once two months ago, on a project call."
The fact that he remembered made my stomach turn over in ways I didn't like to admit.
"Ethan…" I began, trying to sound commanding. "You can't keep doing this. Popping up like this."
"Like what?"
"Like this isn't a line we don't cross. You're my client."
He did not move for a moment, his eyes unwavering but softer now.
"You keep saying that like that's the only thing that makes this what it is."
I hesitated.
"What's this, then?" I snapped.
He leaned his head to one side. "Something one shouldn't flee from."
And before I could say another word, my boss stepped out of the elevator.
"Tessa! Good, you're in early good. We've got a client presentation in twenty minutes."
Capital timing. Of course.
I nodded quickly, going to go, clutching the scarf a fraction too tightly.
Ethan smiled at me minimally not his flirtatious one, but a softer smile. "I'll catch you later, Tessa."
And with that, he vanished, leaving a lingering scent of coffee and leather.
By lunchtime, I'd read his message from the previous night a good five times between meetings. I was on pins.
But when I got home that night, I found something strange in my bag.
A note, written on a napkin.
For what it's worth, I don't operate by coincidence.
E.H.
I dropped onto my couch, the scarf in my lap, the note in my hand, and a smile I hadn't meant to have across my face.
Maybe it wasn't by accident.
Maybe it was something beginning something horribly, beautifully wrong in all the right spots.
The note sat on my coffee table all night.
I told myself to throw it away. Shred it, burn it, whatever. But every time I looked at it, that exact, deliberate handwriting stared back at me patient, steady, unignorable.
I don't believe in coincidences, for what it's worth.
It wasn't what he said. It was the manner in which he said it. Like he actually did mean it.
I hugged myself onto my couch, still wearing my scarf around my neck, the lingering scent of his cologne on the material. I hated that it smelled clean and warm, like him.
And I hated even more that it made me safe.
I'd spent years rebuilding myself after Leo years convincing myself that love was just a pretty word people used to decorate heartbreak. I'd promised to be smarter. To stay detached. To keep my heart out of the equation.
And yet, one man one annoyingly kind, impossibly confident, ridiculously attentive man was starting to make all my promises feel flimsy.
The next morning, Maya just dropped by. She never knocked she burst in, caffeine and confusion, as always.
"Good morning, heartbreak!" she trilled, spilling a paper bag onto my kitchen counter. "I brought muffins, gossip, and judgment. Which shall I dole out first?"
"None of the above," I snatched the bag.
"Oh, please. You've got the look."
"What look?"
"The I-pretend-I'm-annoyed-but-I'm-secretly-smitten look."
I rolled my eyes. "You're reading things into it."
"Am I?" she said, pointing to the scarf around my neck. "That's not your usual office accessory."
I froze.
Of course she'd notice.
"Oh my God," Maya gasped. "It's his, isn't it?"
"Maya"
"Don't even try it. You've got your hair done, your perfume's fresh, and that is definitely not your 'just another client' outfit."
I groaned, sinking into the stool. "He dropped by the office yesterday. That's all."
"Uh-huh. And did he accidentally bring you coffee and a handwritten note?"
I glared at her. "You saw it?"
"It was sitting right beside your laptop, babe. I'm not blind."
I let out a defeated sigh. "It's nothing. He's just… persistent. Thoughtful."
"Persistent is romantic if you like him," she said with a smile. "Creepy if you don't. So which one is it?"
I paused too long, it seemed.
"Tess. Oh my God, you like him."
No," I said firmly. "I like that he's professional. Polite. Maybe a little"
"Hot?"
"Maya!"
"Come on! The man looks like he stepped out of a cologne commercial and into your life. You can't tell me you haven't thought about it."
I covered my face with my hands. "This is why I shouldn't be talking to you before 9 a.m.
"Correction," she said, sipping coffee, "this is why you should. You need someone to say it's all right to feel something again. You've been going through the motions like a robot for two years."
Her voice softened on the last word, and I hated how right she was.
"Just. be careful," she continued. "But don't shut him down before you even get a glimpse at what he's offering."
I looked down at the scarf again, twisting it between my fingers.
"That's the thing," I breathed. "I don't know what he's suggesting. And I don't think I'm ready to find out."
Maya nodded sympathetically. "Maybe not. But life doesn't wait for readiness, babe. It waits for courage.
That night, after she had left, I placed the note in my drawer not thrown away, not on display, either. Somewhere in between.
Just like whatever this was between Ethan and I.
Not gone.
Not yet real.
Somewhere in the middle.
And for the first time in a really, really long time, I couldn't help but think maybe —maybe the wrong guy was going to show me something right.
That night, I couldn't help but recite Maya's words over and over in my head.
"Life doesn't wait for readiness. It waits for courage."
They echoed and echoed in my mind as I paced back and forth in the apartment, scarf still loose around my neck like a constant reminder that I couldn't shed.
Courage.
The term was foreign something I used to have before love had been a battlefield.
Back then, I was a believer in grand gestures. In second chances. In effort. But heartbreak had a way of rewriting your story until you lost faith in happy endings altogether.
And here I was now standing in my living room, holding a note from a man I barely knew, and wondering if or if not courage was really just another word for recklessness.
I ended up deciding to distract myself the only way I could work.
Laptop. Spreadsheet. Quiet.
Except for the quiet, however, wasn't quiet whatsoever.
Every beep of the keyboard was drowned out by memory: the contours of Ethan's smile, the softening of his voice when he said my name, the cadence of his voice low, measured, careful.
I closed the laptop. "Enough."
But fate, as ever, didn't care about boundaries.
My phone beeped once more.
Ethan Hale.
I stared at the name on the screen until the call ended.
Then it buzzed again this time, a text.
Ethan: Didn't intend to call. Had an awful day. Just wanted to say hope yours got better.
I shouldn't answer.
I knew that.
But my fingers were obstinate.
Tessa: It did. Thanks for the coffee, by the way.
Ethan: You're welcome. I didn't drizzle it with charm. I swear.
Tessa: That would have made it easier to ignore you.
Ethan: Then perhaps next time I will.
Next time.
Two words that shouldn't be as terrifying as they were.
I pushed my lip against my teeth, staring at the message until the typing bubble came back and disappeared.
He sent nothing more.
But the silence spoke volumes.
Because somehow, even when we weren't talking, it felt like we were.
Later in the evening, as the rain started falling outside, I snuggled up on my couch with a blanket and watched city lights blur out through my window.
Maybe that's how it had started not with declarations or perfect moments, but with small, clumsy moments that catch you off guard when you least expect them to occur.
Maybe courage didn't consist of charging into love head-on.
Maybe it was just about not fleeing this time.
I grabbed the drawer, took out Ethan's picture again, and read it one more time before speaking softly into the quiet,
"Maybe you're right, Ethan Hale. Maybe coincidences are not real."
The next morning, I woke to a second message.
Ethan: Look at your front door.
My heart racing, I tiptoed barefoot across the apartment and opened the door.
A paper bag sat on the mat warm, with the smell of coffee and croissants.
No note. No signature.
A simple, quiet thing.
And folded under the cup holder, a napkin the same kind he'd used to jot on before.
Some mornings are better spent.