Sonia M. Rompoti, MSc, Bsc

The thing about Layla and Julian was that everyone had seen it coming for a year and a half except the two of them. The whole team had a group chat about it. There had been a spreadsheet.

And now they were alone in the office at nine PM on a Friday — everyone else long gone — and Julian was standing in the doorway of the meeting room and Layla was sitting on the table because she’d been reading something and had forgotten to get up, and the particular charge in the air was the year and a half arriving all at once.

“You’re still here,” he said.

“You’re still here.”

“I thought everyone had gone.”

“They have.”

He walked in. He sat across from her on the table — on the table, which was something he only did when no one was watching, when the professional version of him got set down for a moment.

“How are you?” he asked.

“I’m fine.”

“Layla.”

She put down her papers. She looked at him. He was looking at her with the careful expression he used when he was being absolutely honest.

“I’ve had a long day,” she said. “And I’m tired and I’m going to say something if I don’t leave soon.”

“Say it,” he said.

“Julian.”

“We’re always so careful with each other,” he said. “And I’m tired of it.”

She looked at her hands. At him.

“Say what you’re thinking,” he said. “I’ll say what I’m thinking. Right now. No strategy.”

She took a breath.

“I think about you,” she said. “Not about work. About you. I’ve been trying to stop and I can’t and I’m extremely frustrated about it because I’ve always been very good at managing these things and apparently not this one.”

Silence.

“Your turn,” she said.

He looked at her for a long moment. Then he crossed the table and he was very close and his hands found her face like it was instinct, not decision.

“I’m not going to say it,” he said. “I’m going to show you and then you can tell me if I got it right.”

She grabbed his collar before he’d finished the sentence.

It wasn’t gentle — a year and a half of careful, measured, perfectly professional nothing landing all at once, and it was the best thing, the truest thing, the thing that made sense of all the Friday evenings and conference calls and shared glances at the spreadsheet that had nothing to do with work.

He pulled back just enough to look at her.

“Did I get it right?” he asked.

“You got it exactly right,” she said.

He kissed her again, slowly this time, like they had all the time in the world now, and they did, now — all the time they’d been sitting on, all the Fridays they hadn’t been brave enough.

They stayed until midnight.

On Monday, eight people in a group chat sent a single identical message.

Told you so.

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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.