Ten Years of Autumn

Chapter 2: Coffee at 2:00 AM

Working under Anton was a exquisite kind of torture.

For three months, we maintained a flawless professional wall. He called me "Ms. Martinez" in front of the board, and I called him "Sir Anton" during budget reviews. But the silence between us during late-night OT sessions was louder than any thunder over Metro Manila.

It was 1:45 AM on a rainy Tuesday. The 22nd floor was entirely pitch black, save for the fluorescent glow illuminating our adjacent desks. We were finalizing the pitch deck for a major regional campaign due at sunrise.

My back throbbed, and my head pounded from staring at spreadsheets for fourteen hours straight. I stood up to walk toward the pantry, my heels clicking softly against the polished floorboards.

As I poured hot water into a mug, a low voice spoke from the doorway.

"You still put two spoonfuls of condensed milk in your instant coffee?"

I nearly dropped the mug. I turned around to find Anton leaning against the doorframe. He had stripped off his suit jacket hours ago; his white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing the sharp lines of his forearms. He looked vulnerable, stripped of his corporate armor.

"Old habits die hard," I whispered, my voice raspy from exhaustion.

Anton took a slow step into the pantry. The sterile aroma of coffee mixed with his distinct scent—sandalwood, rain, and something distinctly him that instantly dragged me back ten years.

"You haven't changed much, Olly," he said softly.

The nickname hit my chest like a physical blow. Hearing "Olly" fall from his lips after months of "Ms. Martinez" fractured something I had fought so hard to keep sealed.

"Don't," I said, looking down at my mug. "Don't do that now, Anton."

"Do what?"

"Act like you know me," I snapped softly, looking up into his dark eyes. "You disappeared. Ten years of complete silence, Anton. You didn't write, you didn't call. Now we're in Manila, working forty inches apart, and you act like we’re strangers—until suddenly you want to remember how I take my coffee."

Anton closed the distance between us, his tall frame looming over me. The cold wall in his eyes shattered, revealing a raw, jagged pain that made my breath catch.

"You think I wanted to leave?" his voice dropped to a fierce whisper, trembling with an intensity that made the small pantry feel stiflingly tight. "You think I wanted to cut you off? My family was drowning in debt after my mom died, Olly. I was working three night shifts while going to college, sleeping two hours a day. I couldn't drag you into my wreckage. I had nothing to offer you. Nothing."

My heart hammered against my ribs. "You offered me your friendship for sixteen years! That was enough! I didn't care about anything else!"

"Well, I did!" he stepped closer, his chest almost touching mine, his warm breath fanning across my forehead. "Because even back then, Olly... you were never just a friend to me."

The room went dead silent, save for the hum of the refrigerator and the gentle patter of rain against the windowpane.

Anton reached out, his hand hovering in the air for a terrifying second before his fingers gently brushed a stray strand of hair behind my ear. His knuckles lightly grazed my cheekbones, warm and rough, sending a shiver directly to my core.

"I missed you every single day," he breathed, his gaze locked onto my lips before pulling his hand back as if he’d been burned. "Now let's finish this deck. You need to rest."

He turned and walked out of the pantry, leaving me trembling in the dim light, my heart beating out of control.