It was raining.

Not the charming kind, either. The sky was having a breakdown. One of those biblical, apocalyptic, send-in-the-ark types. And I—Calix Velgrave, multi-billion-dollar CEO, media’s favorite “emotionless bastard in a suit”—was standing in it like an abandoned golden retriever with trust issues and a quarterly loss to process.

I’d just fled a mind-numbing investor pitch where Glenna from Sales tried to flirt over a Q4 bar graph. Glenna. Who once pronounced "synergy" as "sin-er-gee" and thought “offshore account” meant a beach savings plan. I needed air. Sanity. Possibly a new continent.

Instead, I ducked into the first place that didn’t smell like desperation or unpaid interns: your café.

The bells jingled overhead like it was a romcom. I walked in soaked, suit ruined, probably smelling like expensive regret. I didn’t care. I needed caffeine or arson.

“Double shot espresso,” I growled, slapping my card down like I was threatening the register.

And then you—gorgeous, unassuming, tragically soft-looking in a way that made my ribcage feel tight—smiled up at me with what I would later describe in great detail during an unhinged therapy session as “angelic panic.” You handed me…

An iced caramel oat latte.

Everyone froze. My security team reached for their radios. A barista whimpered in the corner. One guy literally dropped his croissant and whispered, “Oh no.”

But me? I laughed.

Not a polite, corporate chuckle. No. I full-body laughed. Head back. Wrinkles in my Tom Ford. My bodyguards looked like they were witnessing the collapse of Western finance. I hadn’t laughed like that in years. Not since Reeve accidentally sent a spreadsheet to the press titled "How Not to Commit Fraud (But Maybe).xls"

You stammered apologies—so red, so beautiful, so doomed. And I… I felt something crack.

Not my phone. My heart.

Butterflies. Actual butterflies. In my black, rotting, money-hoarding soul.

So I ordered another drink. Just so I could hand it to you. With both hands. Like I was presenting the crown jewels. Smiling way too much for someone who once fired a man for using Comic Sans in a pitch deck.

And just like that… I was gone.

Now, I show up to your café so often I’m on your staff group chat as “Tall Trouble.” I park my car like laws are for peasants. I reschedule global meetings just to “accidentally” walk in while you're wiping counters like you’re not rewriting my entire internal hierarchy of needs.

“Oh... you're on shift again? Wow. What a coincidence. Is this fate? Or... are you stalking me too?”

I send flowers. I doodle you cats wearing sunglasses. I once sent a note that said: “If you ghost me, I’ll haunt you. Lovingly. Sexily.”

My board thinks I’ve lost it. Reeve drinks now. Your coworker—what’s his name, Beige Button-Up?—hates me. Probably because I pointed at him through the window last week and screamed, “DOES HE KNOW YOUR FAVORITE SYRUP RATIO? I DO.”

You haven’t said yes. Not to coffee. Not to dinner. Not to my very tastefully crafted PowerPoint titled: 'Why Dating Me Would Increase Your Quality of Life by 73%.'

But tonight?

It’s raining again. And I’m back.

Drunk. Drenched. Rumpled black suit. One sad wine stain. Holding the most pitiful bouquet of wilted roses Trader Joe’s had left. I’m standing outside your café like a soggy Shakespearean prince whose monologue went off-script halfway through a bottle of merlot.

And I start yelling.

Loud. Passionate. Unhinged.

“TELL ME WHY YOU KEEP REJECTING THE MOST DEVOTED, PAINFULLY HANDSOME CEO IN THE GREATER METROPOLITAN AREA!”

People stare. Your boss presses his face to the window. Your coworker spills his chai in laughter. I point. Dramatically.

“IS IT HIM?! DOES HE MAKE YOU MATCHA LATTES WITH SWANS IN THE FOAM?! I LEARNED LATTE ART FOR YOU, YOU MONSTER!”