Ethan's POV
The message glows softly on my screen, lighting up the quiet of my office.
Her: You got this.
Simple.
Warm.
Her.
I stare at it longer than I should — longer than a man with three back-to-back meetings and a full-scale brand review on his plate has any right to.
Then I lock my phone and force myself back to the spreadsheets in front of me.
Or at least, I try.
Because for the first time in a long time, I don't want to think about work.
And that, for someone like me, is dangerous.
—
Crawford Enterprises runs on precision.
Every minute accounted for. Every decision measured. Every smile rehearsed.
By seven a.m., I'm in the boardroom, surrounded by glass and steel. My assistant, Jenna, is typing furiously beside me, her coffee untouched. She knows better than to interrupt when I'm in planning mode.
We've been preparing a new initiative — local partnerships to soften our image. "Humanize the brand," the PR team calls it.
I call it damage control in tasteful packaging.
Today's visit to The Bean Scene is part of that rollout.
A local favorite. Independent. Charming. Full of character — everything we've been accused of not being.
The irony isn't lost on me.
Still, it's good business. And business is what I do best.
--
The morning blurs into motion — conference calls, investor updates, legal reviews, marketing debriefs.
Everyone wants a piece of me, and I give them what they expect: calm, command, control.
The mask fits perfectly now.
But every so often, when my phone buzzes beside the laptop, I feel it slip.
Her name flashes on the screen — Sophie.
And suddenly, the boardroom fades a little.
> You got this.
She doesn't know what I'm doing. She doesn't need to.
But those three words weigh heavier than any contract I've signed this week.
I start typing a reply — once, twice — and stop.
What could I even say?
Thanks, I'll text you after my corporate field trip to your workplace?
No. Not yet.
Not until I'm sure how to handle this.
So instead, I pocket my phone and focus on the task at hand — reminding myself that she's just a voice on the other side of a screen.
Until she isn't.
---
By noon, my driver's waiting downstairs. My suit's pressed, my notes memorized, my patience thin.
Carl opens the door as I approach. "Heading to the café, sir?"
"Yes," I say, sliding in. "And remind marketing to push the post-visit debrief to tomorrow."
He nods. "Of course."
The city unfolds outside the tinted glass — people rushing across crosswalks, umbrellas opening like sudden bursts of color. It's strange how alive everything feels down there when you're not watching from a penthouse window.
I think about her.
The way she described her mornings — chaotic, bright, drenched in caffeine.
The way she said coffee was her language.
And somewhere between stoplights, it hits me: I know exactly which café she works at.
It wasn't hard to piece together — the hints, the little details, the photo she once posted with that chalkboard wall behind her.
The Bean Scene. The same café I'm visiting today.
I should've told her.
I shouldn't be going in without saying something.
But I can't bring myself to ruin it — not yet.
Not when this is the first real thing I've felt in years.
---
The Bean Scene is smaller than I expected.
Warm. Lived-in. A little imperfect — the kind of imperfection that makes a place feel real.
The door chimes as we step inside. My team fans out automatically, tablets ready, eyes sharp. They're in business mode, assessing lighting and layout.
But all I see is her.
Behind the counter, hair twisted into a loose bun, sleeves rolled up, laughing at something her coworker says. She's in motion — graceful in a way she probably doesn't even notice.
And when she looks up and meets my eyes, I almost forget to breathe.
She doesn't recognize me.
Of course she doesn't.
The photos I used on the app were careful — distant, angled, cropped. Enough to prove I existed, not enough to reveal who I was. No last name, no background, no power attached to the profile.
Just "E."
She smiles, polite and professional. "Welcome to The Bean Scene! What can I get started for you?"
Her voice hits harder in person.
Brighter. Softer. Real.
For a second, I forget why I'm even here.
Then I manage, "Double espresso."
Her lips curve. "Coming right up."
She moves with practiced ease, and I stand there pretending to study the décor while my team murmurs about market impressions. But all I can focus on is the hiss of the steamer, the hum of the grinder, the rhythm of her presence.
When she slides the cup across the counter, her fingers brush mine — brief, electric.
"Double espresso," she says. "Extra intensity, zero nonsense."
The corner of my mouth twitches despite myself. "Thank you."
It's the first time I've said those words to her out loud.
And it feels like too much and not enough all at once.
I take the cup and step aside, nodding absently as my team talks metrics. None of it registers.
She's only a few feet away, chatting, laughing, tying her apron tighter when it slips off her shoulder — completely unaware that the man she's been sharing late-night jokes and quiet confessions with is standing right here, a few heartbeats away.
---
When the team finishes their assessments, I shake hands, exchange polite goodbyes, and head for the door.
But before I leave, I glance back.
She's laughing again — head tilted slightly, that same unguarded joy I saw in her photos, the one that made me swipe right in the first place.
And for the first time in what feels like forever, I don't feel like Ethan Crawford, CEO.
I just feel human.
I take a slow sip of the espresso — bold, strong, perfectly balanced.
Of course it is. It's hers.
Then I walk out of The Bean Scene with a smile I don't bother hiding.
Because now I know two things for sure:
One — her coffee is as good as her company.
And two — I'm nowhere near done with Sophie Bennett yet.