LANA'S POV
The next morning, I arrived at the café before sunrise.
The air was crisp, the streetlights still blinking sleepy orange, and the smell of dew lingered over the pavement.
I unlocked the door slowly, almost expecting Caleb to already be inside, like he had been the past few days.
But the café was quiet.
And maybe that was a good thing.
I needed space. Not just from the noise of yesterday's viral chaos, or from Mira's knowing glances, but from Caleb.
From the question I still hadn't answered.
Let's make this real.
He'd said it plainly in Chapter Eight, standing across from me with more sincerity than I'd ever seen in his eyes. He wanted us, whatever "us" meant, to be something true.
And I still hadn't said yes.
Not because I didn't want it.
But because I wasn't sure I could trust it.
---
By the time Mira arrived, I had already stocked the pastry shelves, scrubbed the espresso machine twice, and burned a batch of scones I wasn't even trying to perfect.
"Wow," she said as she entered, raising an eyebrow. "You either fought with him or dreamt about him."
I gave her a look. "Please, don't start."
She grinned and went to the back to tie her apron.
But I knew she wasn't wrong.
I had dreamt about him. Not in the romantic way people might expect. It was stranger than that. I dreamt of us talking. Laughing. Cleaning mugs side by side. Sitting in silence that didn't feel empty.
It scared me more than anything physical ever could.
---
Just after noon, the bell over the door chimed and there he was.
Caleb.
No coffee in hand. No laptop. Just him in a charcoal gray sweater that made his eyes look sharper than usual.
He gave me a small smile. "Morning."
I returned it, but it didn't quite reach my eyes.
"Can we talk?" he asked gently.
Mira, sensing the shift in the air, made a dramatic excuse about reorganizing inventory and disappeared into the storage room.
I wiped my hands on my apron and nodded toward the corner table.
He followed.
We sat in silence for a moment, watching steam drift from a mug he hadn't touched yet.
"I know I asked you something big the other day," he finally said. "And I didn't mean to pressure you."
"You didn't," I replied. "I just… haven't found the answer yet."
His gaze searched mine. "What's holding you back?"
I let out a slow breath. "You."
His brows furrowed slightly.
"Caleb, you're still wrapped up in whatever storm you're hiding from. You say you want something real, but your past keeps bleeding into your present. I'm not asking for perfection, but I am asking for honesty."
He was quiet for a long moment, fingers tracing the rim of his cup.
"I don't know how to do this the right way, Lana," he said finally. "I wasn't raised around normal. I was raised around showings and silences, press events and lawyers. I never learned how to stay."
I folded my arms, heart aching even though I wasn't sure for which of us.
"I don't need you to know how to stay," I said softly. "But I do need you to try."
He looked at me then, truly looked. No walls. No careful charm. Just a man trying to speak through centuries of inherited silence.
"I am trying," he said. "That's what all this is. Being here. Showing up. Working beside you like I belong, even when I feel like I don't."
The words hit something inside me.
I remembered the way he'd cleaned tables last night like it was second nature. How he'd handed me that vanilla rose latte with a touch of pride. How his eyes softened when I told him not to go.
He was trying. Maybe not perfectly, maybe not even confidently, but honestly.
And honesty… was everything to me.
I exhaled and leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Okay."
He blinked. "Okay?"
"I'm not giving you a full yes. Not yet. But I'm not saying no either." I paused, letting the words sit between us. "I'm saying… I'll let this happen. Slowly. Day by day. If you're willing to do the work."
His jaw tightened just a little. "I am."
"Then that's all I need to hear. For now."
A slow, tentative smile spread across his face, one that made him look younger somehow, lighter.
We sat like that, staring at each other in a café corner that had seen everything from spilled oat milk to the birth of something real.
Eventually, Mira poked her head out from the back, glanced between us, and gave me a not-so-subtle thumbs up.
I rolled my eyes.
Caleb caught it and chuckled. "Your best friend ships us."
"She ships drama," I muttered.
"Then she must think I'm your season finale."
I snorted. "You wish."
---
Later, after the café closed, we found ourselves outside under the early evening sky, the pavement still warm beneath our feet.
He stood close, but not too close.
"I meant what I said," he murmured. "About not performing. I want this to be real."
I looked up at him. "Then stop talking about it."
He raised a brow. "Oh?"
"Show me."
He didn't answer with words. He just held my gaze a moment longer, then reached for my hand, not with hesitation, but with quiet certainty.
I let him.
And for the first time in a long time, I didn't feel like I had to guard my heart from its own hope.