Chapter 7 — Coffee and Unfinished Conversations
1129 Words
Lana’s POV
I didn’t plan on seeing him again so soon.
After leaving his office yesterday, I told myself I’d keep things strictly professional. No eye contact, no conversations that wandered past business hours. Just the job.
But fate, apparently, had a cruel sense of humor.
When I walked into Extra International’s sleek lobby the next morning, the first person I saw, standing at the corner coffee station, of all places.. was Daniel Gray.
He looked impossibly put-together, like mornings just obeyed him.
Crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms, his tie hanging loose. The sight made something in me ache with nostalgia and irritation all at once. He was too composed, too familiar, and too close.
He was scrolling through his phone when I approached the counter. I thought maybe, if I kept quiet, he’d leave. But without looking up, he spoke — that same low, calm voice that always managed to sound like both a question and a command.
“Morning,” he said. As if we’d done this every day for ten years, he slid a cup across the counter toward me. “French roast. You still take it black, right?”
I froze.
He remembered.
“You still remember that?” I asked quietly.
Daniel looked up then, his eyes catching mine — unreadable, but softer than I remembered.
“You think I’d forget something like that?” he said, voice just above a whisper.
The air between us shifted. My chest tightened in that familiar, annoying way.
Of course he remembered.
Daniel never forgot details — not about work, not about people, and certainly not about me.
“Thanks,” I muttered, taking the cup just so I’d have something to hold.
He leaned a little against the counter, the faintest smile appeared on his lips. “You’ve adjusted fast. Most people take weeks to catch up around here.”
“I’ve been adapting my whole life, Daniel. You should know that by now.”
Something flickered across his face at my words — regret, maybe. Or memory.
Then he nodded, slowly “Yeah,” he murmured. “I should.”
For a brief second, it felt like we were back in college again, standing in our tiny kitchen at two in the morning, arguing about caffeine and coding errors, laughing until the sun started coming up.
Then someone approached our direction and the moment was gone.
---
The day dragged on. Meetings, greetings from people who had no idea I used to know their boss before he became their boss.
Every time Daniel’s voice echoed through the conference room, I felt my heart skip a beat. Not because of what he said, but because of how easily I could still hear the version of him that used to sit across from me with dreams in his eyes and ink stains on his fingers.
We’d built something back then — not a company, but a promise. We never finalized the name, but we talked about the idea. A company that would connect people through language, through culture, through understanding.
We wanted to call it something simple, something that meant more than just business.
Now here I was, standing in that dream, ten years too late, and it already belonged to him.
At lunch, an internal message popped up on my screen:
Daniel Gray: 3:00 PM. Conference Room B. Strategy meeting. Be there.
No “please.” No “thank you.”
Just Daniel. Still issuing orders like the world had agreed to his rhythm.
I rolled my eyes, but part of me smiled. Some habits really didn’t die.
---
By the time I walked into Conference Room B, he was already there.
The sleeves were rolled again. I was starting to think he did that just to test my composure.
He looked up from a stack of papers when I entered.
“Lana,” he said, his voice softer than expected. “Close the door, please.”
Something about his tone made my heart pick up.
When the door clicked shut, he leaned back against the table, arms crossed.
“We need to talk before Paris,” he said.
“Paris?”
He nodded. “There’s a global languages conference next week. We’ll be presenting the new AI for translating languages. You’ll handle the French team.”
I blinked. “You’re kidding. I’ve been here for less than a week.”
His lips curved slightly, that familiar half-smile that said he was enjoying my reaction. “And yet you’re already the only one fluent enough to represent us.”
“Daniel—”
“It’s not negotiable,” he interrupted, though his tone was gentle. “This isn’t about us. It’s about the company. You’re the best choice.”
Us.
The word hung in the air like a paused breathe.
I should’ve walked away. I should’ve said no. But something inside me, maybe pride, maybe curiosity, wouldn’t let me.
“Fine,” I said finally. “Just business.”
He smiled again, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Of course.”
---
That night, I tried to convince myself it really was just business.
But lying in bed, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this trip would change everything.
I closed my eyes, thinking about the way he looked at me this morning — not like a CEO, not even like an ex.
Like someone who still knew the rhythm of my heartbeat.
I turned over, burying my face in the pillow, whispering into the dark:
“Just business.”
But even I didn’t believe that anymore.
---
Daniel’s POV — Same Night
The office was quiet, heavy kind of silence that only comes after midnight.
Everyone else was gone.
I sat behind my desk, staring at the one thing I swore I wouldn’t open again: an old notebook.
The edges were worn, the cover half torn — our notebook.
The first page still had her handwriting beside mine:
“Someday, words won’t just translate — they’ll connect people.”
That was her. Always stating beyond the obvious. Always believing that language wasn’t just communication — it was emotion, understanding, heart.
I ran a thumb over her faded ink and let out a slow breath.
Of all the people to walk back into my life, it had to be her.
And of all the things I thought I’d buried, it turns out memories don’t stay dead — they just wait for the right voice to wake them.
I leaned back, closing my eyes. For a moment, I could almost hear her laughter in that old apartment kitchen.
Tomorrow, we’d fly to Paris.
Ten hours beside her, pretending to be fine.
And somehow, that terrified me more than anything else in the world.
- Writer
