Sonia M. Rompoti, MSc, Bsc

She was standing outside his coffee shop in the rain, and for a full thirty seconds, Daniel forgot how to breathe. Seven years. Seven years of silence, of rebuilding, of convincing himself he was over her — and there she was, wearing that ridiculous yellow raincoat she’d had since college, squinting at her phone like it had personally offended her.

He should have stayed behind the counter.

He didn’t.

“You’re going to get struck by lightning standing under a metal awning,” he said, holding the door open.

Clara looked up. Something moved across her face — surprise, then something softer and more dangerous. “Still can’t mind your own business, I see.”

“Still can’t use an umbrella, I see.”

She laughed — short, surprised, real — and the sound hit him like muscle memory. His body remembered her the way it remembered how to ride a bike. Effortlessly. Devastatingly.

She came inside. He made her an oat latte without asking, because he still knew. She wrapped both hands around the cup the way she always had, like it was the last warm thing in the world.

“I didn’t know you owned this place,” she said.

“Bought it three years ago. You?”

“Visiting my mum. She had a hip replacement.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“She’s fine. She’s already bossing the nurses around.”

He smiled. She smiled. The rain drummed harder against the windows.

He wanted to ask why she’d left without a goodbye. He wanted to ask if she’d ever thought about him. He wanted to say a lot of things that were inappropriate for a Tuesday afternoon with two other customers in the room.

Instead, he refilled her coffee.

“Stay until the rain stops?” he asked.

She looked out the window. The storm showed no signs of letting up. She looked back at him with those eyes that had always seen straight through every version of him he’d ever tried to be.

“Okay,” she said simply.

It was such a small word. It always had been. She’d said it the first time he’d asked her to dance at a terrible house party in their second year. She’d said it the morning he’d asked her to move in. He’d been waiting seven years to hear her say it again, and he hadn’t even known it until right now.

He went back behind the counter. She opened her laptop. The rain fell.

At closing time, he turned the sign to CLOSED and she was still there. Still there. He poured two glasses of wine from the bottle he kept for exactly no occasion in particular.

She closed her laptop.

They didn’t talk about the past. They didn’t need to yet. They talked about her mother’s hip and his disastrous attempt at sourdough and the cat he’d adopted that had immediately destroyed two chairs.

When she finally stood to leave, the rain had stopped.

“Daniel,” she said at the door.

“Clara.”

“I should have said goodbye.”

“Yeah,” he said. “You should have.”

She nodded. He held the door. She stepped out into the clean, washed night, and turned back once — just once — with a look that said ‘next time‘.

He locked up, turned off the lights, and stood alone in his coffee shop with a full chest and shaking hands.

There was going to be a next time. He was sure of it the way he was sure of nothing else.

So you made it to the end… which probably means you’re the kind of person who enjoys a little romance with their coffee. If you’re in the mood for more stories about messy feelings, stubborn attraction, and women who absolutely refuse to settle for boring love, you can find all my books here.

Fair warning though. One story tends to lead to another. I’ve seen it happen. Repeatedly.