CHAPTER 8
1568 Words
Chapter 8: Coffee Collisions & Heartbeats
Aria Lane pushed open the kitchen door at chromatique studio with a sigh—solo mug mission: half-caf, almond oat milk, no sugar—a liquid lifeline before the quarterly meeting she was contracted to attend. Though she’d originally thought today would have felt celebratory, the announcement of her mural being selected still churned her nerves into knots.
The break room was light and minimalist—polished concrete floors, white walls, sleek cabinets. She moved with practiced efficiency toward the espresso machine. She placed a favorite mug—one she’d brought from home, chipped at the rim but full of character—on the counter, and set it under the dispenser.
Steam hissed and coffee sloshed into the cup. Aria closed her eyes, inhaling the morning ritual’s warmth, hoping for comfort.
Crunch—her foot collided with something grounding. She jolted, nearly toppling her mug over.
“I’m so sorry!” she blurted, stepping back—but too late. The frame to frame breath of someone standing too close hit her.
“Really?” A voice, smooth like midnight honey. “Is bumping into people your characteristic skillset, Miss Lane?”
Her eyes flew open. She blinked. Controlled herself. “I—Excuse me?”
She spun, ready to apologize, backtrack, flee—but froze.
He was there. Built like an obsidian statue polished to shine. Shirt tucked in neatly, tie knotted perfectly. He looked—alive—almost... vulnerable.
“I’m sorry,” she rasped again, “I—”
But before she could finish, he reached out a hand and captured her elbow gently, but firmly. Just enough to stop her from escaping.
“Let me help,” he murmured—otherwise unemotionally—but tinged with something warmer. A caress of tone. A command she couldn’t resist heeding.
Her breath bumped against his sleeve. She smelled clean linen, a brush of cologne. His grip was kind, guiding her around a pantry cupboard and out into free space.
“I—thank you.” She pulled her arm free and backed away, suddenly aware of her beating heart. Of the unshed coffee in her mug. Of how damned smooth he was.
“You almost spilt. That would have been tragic,” he said, eyes focused on her.
“Yeah,” she whispered. “Thanks.”
She paused. Then: “I—have to get coffee.”
He smirked, just the edges of his mouth lifting. “Running away already? Miss Lane, I thought we were growing more—personal.”
“Personal…?” She flinched, unsure.
He flicked his eyes to her. “You don’t remember me? From last night?”
Her stomach dropped colder than the coffee’s cup.
She exhaled quickly, fixed her grip on the mug. Ignored the faint tremor running through her. “I—work in this building, yes. I’m... early.”
He took a half-step forward and angled his head. His tone wrapped around hers like velvet. “No. I meant me. From that bar last night.”
The bar.
The corner stool. The rasp of laughter. The stinging bar-room lights. Her accident—the word spilled: briefcase. Him.
“I’m sorry,” she said with meek sincerity, as though remembering… but also withholding. Enough to skew honesty from memory. “Lots of drinks. Maybe I—don’t fully recall.”
He released a breath, running a thumb across his chin. “Is that so? You called me a walking briefcase, if words serve right.”
She froze at the memory. Flushed. “I… regret that.”
He smirked—a softer grin, mischievous. “Yes?”
“Coffee.”
She turned again for the espresso, heart fluttering. Heard him hover.
“Don’t run yet,” he murmured, almost tender.
She pretended to search the countertop. Her fingers rattled a spoon but found nothing.
He leaned in, quietly teasing: “I’ll make you pay for that night.”
She stopped. Didn’t turn. Let a breath escape with tremor. “That’s not necessary.”
“Wasn’t asked.” He released a breath, looked at the mug. “Always take it black.”
Her pulse hammered. She didn’t know why. She just knew: the cup seemed suddenly too simple for so many emotions.
He stepped back. “Enjoy your coffee, Miss Lane.”
She raised the mug with a tremulous smile. “Thanks.” She sipped—and nearly melted.
He exited. The door closed softly, leaving her heart racing and coffee lukewarm.
———
Midday—The Studio
The team convened in Aria’s rented studio across town. Moving into corporate marketing headquarters wasn’t her whole goal— but this was the deal. Scenes felt surreal. Operating under Blackwood Holdings’ roof.
She’d thought she might feel proud—winning and working with Cassian.
But when she looked at her mural framed on a digital wall, she felt small, fearful. Why did he choose it?
When Mari arrived—with a basket of croissants—her golden hair kinked at the ends, the room brightened.
“Hey, hopeless,” Mari chirped, setting the basket on the table.
“Hey,” Aria managed, smoothing sleepless creases.
Mari took one savory croissant and held it in front of Aria. “Caffeine?”
“Please.”
Lily swept in next, pulling out her laptop. “I found a carrot bagel—double everything.”
They gathered, forming a circle of commiseration, as though they were still just undergrads in a university cafeteria—yet they weren’t. Not anymore.
“Remember what I said?” Mari prodded. “Lucky.”
Aria frowned, biting a glazed tip. “Is it luck?”
Mari shrugged. “Why else? You were never cashing in—except Cassian decided you deserved it.”
“This doesn’t feel like luck,” Aria whispered. She looked at Lily, who had sighed like she understood everything.
“He’s inscrutable,” Lily said calmly. “Aria, are you… okay?”
Her words pricked. Aria closed her eyes. “What if he thinks I’m an i***t—drunk, clumsy, insulting?”
Mari’s hand enveloped hers. “Hey. Look around. He picked this. He didn’t have to pick it. He chose you.”
“Chosen angrily,” Aria muttered.
“Maybe he’s playful,” Lily ventured. “Maybe he needed someone bold. Someone who wouldn’t freeze under evaluation pressure.”
“Cold coffee,” Mari teased, gesturing. “Anyone?”
Aria offered a ghost of a smile. “Black.”
They spread out marked-up prints of the mural. They planned adaptation for the digital reception wall, photo ops, citations. She slipped through line edits, keyed in logistics.
She looked out the window of the studio—felt the tension mount.
He’d chosen them. She. And using her art for a national showcase. But… what did he expect?
———
Late Afternoon—
Back at Blackwood Holdings, Aria and her team stood before a digital display shimmering like moonlit water. The mural’s progression—from bare draft to fully layered—looped quietly.
Cassian emerged—his walk measured. He stopped by the projection but didn’t speak. Just watched. And waited.
The elevator doors slid open with a polite chime. Another Blackwood associate arrived, male, mid-30s, professional yet gentle.
Cassian swiveled to Aria, his posture shifting to accommodate her presence.
“I hope you're proud,” he said, voice mellow.
She drew in a breath. Eyes flicked to Mari and Lily, radiating support. “It’s surreal.”
He nodded. “I wanted more than just a mural. I wanted something honest.”
Aria opened her mouth to ask why, but he let the silence pulse.
He stepped closer—barely an inch.
“I chose this,” he murmured. “Because it’s not safe.”
That sent warmth through her chest, but nerves too—not of fear, but of something like admiration.
“How...?” she whispered.
He crooned, eyes on her sketch: “Because art, real art, rattles what’s inside us.”
Her breath fluttered.
He crossed his arms. “And...because I want to rattle yours.”
She swallowed. “Why me?”
He looked away. Reached out, brushed a loose strand of hair from her face. It was kind—gentle. Encouraging.
She stared into his eyes—gray, deep as winter lakes, and unexpectedly soft.
“You matter,” he answered simply.
Her pulse quickened. The gallery lights provided something akin to intimacy. Overhead, polished neon instead of candles, still it felt like confession.
He stepped back, clearing his throat. “The press release will go live tomorrow. Rewards, reception—promotion will start.”
She nodded.
His tone shifted, business again but threaded with warmth. “Now, let’s finish this.”
He joined her at the laptop. The room hummed around them, but they were close—too close—and everything else seemed to blur.
She exhaled, his presence a spark lighting through normalized dusk.
———
Evening—Aria’s Apartment
She kicked off her heels at the door and stumbled toward the couch. Her heart still zooming. She replayed it.
“Because it’s not safe.” “I want to rattle yours.” “You matter.”
Those words looped like a secret replay in her mind.
Her phone buzzed. A text from Cassian:
> Cassian Blackwood: Good night, Aria. Early start tomorrow.
- Writer
