* Present *
The coffee shop around the corner from the office has become my sanctuary. Overpriced lattes, questionable jazz music, and zero coworkers judging my cardigan collection.
Heaven, basically.
I push through the door during my lunch break, mentally composing my order—something with enough caffeine to power a small spacecraft—when the universe decides to remind me that happiness is temporary.
I literally bump into someone at the counter. Hot coffee sloshes dangerously close to expensive fabric, and I'm stammering apologies when I look up and my blood turns to ice.
Nathan stands there, blond hair artfully tousled, wearing one of his expensive casual shirts. He barely glances at me, dabbing at his sleeve with a napkin.
"Watch where you're—" He stops and actually looks at me this time. "Oh. Rory."
The way he says my name makes it sound like a disease he thought he'd recovered from. We work in the same building, pass each other in hallways, occasionally breathe the same conference room air.
But Nathan has perfected the art of looking through me like I'm made of glass.
Apparently, physical collision is where he draws the line.
"Nathan." I keep my voice neutral. Professional.
Like we're acquaintances who once shared an elevator, not a bed and a pregnancy announcement that sent him running. His face twists into something resembling a smile—too smug, dripping with condescension.
"Wow. We see each other every day, but I don't think we've actually talked in... what, years?" His eyes sweep over my grandmother's cardigan, my glasses, my general aura of an invisible office worker. "You look exactly the same."
The insult lands with surgical precision and I feel it slice through whatever armor I'd constructed this morning.
"Thanks." The word tastes like battery acid. "You too."
"So how's life treating you outside the office?" He doesn't wait for an answer, because Nathan has never been interested in anyone's life but his own. "Still doing the same..." He waves vaguely. "Whatever it is you do? Numbers?"
"Data analysis." My jaw aches from clenching.
"Right, right. Spreadsheets. Thrilling stuff."
He orders his coffee—some complicated monstrosity with oat milk—while I stand there like a hostage in my own lunch break.
"You know, I've been thinking lately about how good it was that things worked out the way they did. Between us, I mean."
Worked out.
Like our relationship was a business deal that reached its natural conclusion, not a man abandoning his pregnant girlfriend.
"Things are really going well for me," he continues, completely unprompted. "Sales are booming. Got a new apartment downtown. Life is good."
I nod, smile, and imagine stabbing him with the little wooden coffee stirrers.
"And actually…" His voice drops conspiratorially. "I've got a date coming up. Met someone at that corporate event last week. She's incredible. Like, completely out of my league incredible."
My polite smile stays frozen in place.
"She's got this whole mysterious vibe going on, you know? The kind of woman who walks into a room and every head turns." He sighs like a lovesick teenager. "I've never wanted anyone this badly."
He describes her like a trophy. Like a conquest. Like a prize to be mounted on his wall rather than a human being with thoughts and feelings.
I keep my expression neutral. "Sounds nice."
"Nice? She's perfect." His coffee arrives and he takes it with satisfaction. "Anyway, good talk, Rory. See you around the office."
He walks out without waiting for a response, leaving me with shaking hands and a heart full of rage. I hope whoever this poor woman is spits in his face. I hope she sees through his boyish charm to the hollow man underneath.
I grab my coffee and flee before I have to explain why I'm crushing a paper cup with my bare hands.
The sidewalk is crowded with lunch-hour traffic, and I'm not watching where I'm going because my eyes are blurring with frustrated tears. Which is why I nearly collided with someone for the second time in ten minutes.
"Whoa… Rory?"
Leo catches my elbow before I faceplant into his chest. He's wearing jeans and a soft gray t-shirt instead of his delivery uniform, cap slightly askew, looking like the human embodiment of a warm hug.
His face lights up when he sees me. Actually lights up, like I'm someone worth being excited about.
"Hey, are you okay?" The concern in his brown eyes is genuine. No condescension, no judgment—just warmth. "You look upset."
"I'm fine." The lie comes automatically. "Just... long day."
Leo doesn't push. He just nods, accepting my deflection with grace.
"Day off," he offers, gesturing at his casual clothes. "Was running errands when I spotted you. There's this great bakery around the corner—amazing pie, seriously life-changing. Since we're both here, maybe I could treat you? Only if you want," he adds quickly. "No pressure."
I hesitate. The office whispers echo in my memory—two losers flirting, how cute. The judgment, the snickers.
But Leo's eyes are warm and patient, his smile crinkling at the corners, and right now I really need someone to look at me like I matter.
"Okay," I hear myself say. "Yes. Pie sounds good."
His grin could power the entire city grid.
The bakery is tiny and perfect, all mismatched chairs and fresh bread smell. Leo orders us both apple pie with vanilla ice cream, and we squeeze into a corner table barely big enough for our plates.
And then we talk. For forty minutes, we just... talk.
He tells me about delivery mishaps—the time he accidentally delivered flowers to a funeral home, the customer who tipped him in homemade cookies, the dog that steals packages like a furry crime boss.
I tell him about Milo's dinosaur obsession, how he's convinced a T-Rex lives in our closet, how he makes me check for velociraptors before bedtime.
Leo laughs at the right moments. He asks about my life, my interests, my terrible movie preferences. He admits to an unironic love of Nicolas Cage films, and I confess I've seen The Mummy seventeen times.
"Brendan Fraser is a national treasure," Leo says solemnly, and I nearly choke on my pie.
He asks questions about me. Not some fantasy version, not some idealized woman who doesn't exist. Just Rory—invisible, cardigan-wearing, dinosaur-checking Rory.
When we finally stand to leave, Leo walks me to the corner where our paths diverge, hands shoved in his pockets like a nervous teenager.
"This was really nice," he says. "The pie was good, but the company was better." His ears turn pink. "Can I see you again? Like, on purpose this time?"
The question hits me like a freight train. He's asking me out. Leo, with his kind eyes and origami cats and genuine warmth, wants to see me again.
Not some glamorous stranger. Me.
"I... yes." The word escapes before I can overthink it. "I'd like that."
His smile is sunrise and Christmas morning and every good thing I've forgotten existed. "Great. That's... yeah. Great."
We part ways, and I walk back to the office in a daze, turning the moment over in my mind.
Leo is interested in me. The invisible woman. Not a fantasy.
But would that be enough? Every time we talk at work, we both get ridiculed. Leo is adorable, kind, patient—everything Nathan never was.
But is that really what I need? What I want?