LANA'S POV
After Zahra's post went live, everything changed and fast.
My phone wouldn't stop buzzing. The café's notifications were nonstop. Instagram tags, reposts, emails asking about custom latte classes, bookings from out-of-towners. By noon, we had a line out the door.
I barely had time to breathe.
Mira arrived mid-rush, gaping at the chaos. "What happened? Did someone die or... wait, is this because of that Zahra Montclair?"
I nodded while steaming milk. "She tagged us. It's everywhere."
"Girl," she said, eyes wide. "You've just been influenced into a whole new tax bracket."
I wanted to laugh, but I was too exhausted to even smile properly. Between serving tables, calming panicked new customers who expected five-star brunch treatment, and trying to stop my hands from shaking every time Caleb brushed past me, I was barely holding it together.
Caleb, though? He didn't flinch once.
He moved behind the counter like he'd worked there for years, carrying trays, wiping tables, reading the tiny labels I scribbled for specialty orders, and even managing our online order tablet when Mira and I couldn't keep up.
He had no apron this time. Just rolled-up sleeves, that ever-present watch on his wrist, and this way of speaking gently to customers that made people lean in.
"You could hire him, you know," Mira whispered to me at one point. "He'd boost sales just by standing there."
"Please don't give him ideas."
---
By the time the crowd thinned out, it was nearly sunset. The café was a mess of empty cups, lipstick-stained napkins, and gold confetti from Zahra's table that had somehow made its way into everything.
I sat heavily on a stool, finally catching my breath.
Caleb slid a cup of coffee toward me. "Vanilla rose," he said.
I blinked at him. "You made this?"
"I've been paying attention."
I smiled, but there was a twist of emotion under it. This man, this wildly rich, emotionally elusive man, had spent the entire day covered in syrup and foam just to make sure I didn't fall apart.
And I still didn't know what that meant.
"So," I said, wrapping my hands around the warm cup. "Are you going to tell me why you're really doing all this?"
"All what?"
"This." I gestured around the café. "The showing up. The helping. The pretending you're not"
"Complicated?" he offered.
I nodded.
He leaned against the counter beside me, watching the pink light slant through the front window.
"I don't know what this is yet," he said quietly. "But it's the first thing in a long time that doesn't feel like a performance."
I turned to him. "Then stop performing. Just be here. Be real."
He looked at me then, fully, deeply.
"I want to," he said.
There was something in his voice that made my throat tighten. Not quite a promise, but something close enough that I felt it settle between us like a breath held too long.
---
Later that night, after we locked the doors and Mira had gone home, I found Caleb still inside, wiping down the last table without being asked.
I watched him for a moment, how easily he'd folded into my world, into the rhythm of this tiny café. It scared me how normal it felt.
"Are you okay driving home?" I asked finally.
He looked up. "I'm not going home."
I blinked. "What do you mean?"
He hesitated. "I don't live in the city anymore. Not really. I've been staying at a hotel for weeks."
"What about your house?"
"It's full of ghosts," he said simply.
Something about the way he said it made me quiet. I didn't push.
Instead, I walked over and handed him a paper bag, still warm.
"Your reward," I said. "Cinnamon swirl. Best one of the day."
He took it, smiling faintly. "I'll treasure it."
He walked to the door, paused, and glanced back.
"Hey, Lana?"
"Yeah?"
"I meant what I said earlier. I want to stop performing."
I nodded slowly. "Then stay. Not just here in the café. But in this... thing, with me. Stay, if you mean it."
He didn't say yes.
But he didn't leave either.
And that, for now, was enough.