Location: Conference Room, Umbra Operations HQ, Dallas, Texas, USA
Time: 10:25 am
Arthur had been seated in the conference room long before the appointed time, his fingers tracing the rim of his coffee cup with a seemingly casual grace that barely concealed the exhaustion on his face. He had slept less than two hours the night before, plagued by restless dreams of her, fragments of heat and longing that left him disoriented and agitated.
His eyes hadn't left the wall clock for a second. Every tick of the second hand felt like a taunt to his impatience. He forced himself to appear composed, but the tension was stitched into his very bones. Then, his phone buzzed. A call from building security lit up his screen.
"Good morning, Sir. We have a visitor not registered in the system. Would you like us to send someone to confirm her identity?"
He frowned slightly. But the moment brought with it a surge of certainty, so sudden, so visceral, it nearly betrayed his calm. It had to be her. Who else could it be?
His voice came out rough, urgent, laced with an edge of command that was more instinct than intention."No need. Bring her up."
"Yes, sir. Right away." The moment he hung up, Arthur straightened in his seat like a soldier snapping to attention, every nerve in his body suddenly sharp, like he'd just been pulled to the front lines.
His eyes locked on the conference room door, knuckles taut against the table's edge, breath held without even realising it.
He tried to smooth his cuffs, adjust his posture, mask the tension, but he knew it was all just performance.
His gaze flicked to the coffee cup placed on the table beside him. It wasn't just any coffee. That morning, he had driven across the city, taking a detour all the way to Henderson to get from Houndstooth Coffee, a small, refined café chain known for its precision and quality.
He waited in line himself, ordered a caramel latte, no cream, no artificial flavoring, exactly how she liked it. The cup was still steaming, a delicate scent curling into the air like a whisper.
Just to be sure, he'd confirmed the milk selection, sweetness level, and temperature with the barista.
He needed that cup to stay at the perfect temperature until 10:30, warm but not scalding, balanced but not bland.
The kind of taste that started a morning with quiet precision. This wasn't just coffee. It was: "I remembered every word you said last night. So I made sure this was perfect." And he'd never done this to any woman before.
Years later, his eldest son, the quiet one with the ever-stoic face, once asked him during a quiet evening:"Father, why did Mom choose you? You were… kind of notorious playboy back then. She could've married someone more proper. More respectable."
Arthur remembered that moment clearly. He didn't answer right away. Instead, his mind wandered back to that early morning ,waking before dawn, driving across half of Dallas, lining up at that boutique café for her,carefully repeating her order in his head like a damn schoolboy, double-checking the milk choice, the sweetness, the exact temperature, just to make sure it would still be perfect at 10:30 a.m.
He remembered how fast his heart was beating. Not from nerves… but from hope. Hope that maybe , just maybe , she'd notice. That she'd take a sip, and think of him.
He let out a low chuckle and shook his head. Then he looked at his son, smiled faintly, and said:
"Because from the very first day, I remembered every word she ever said. And anything she asked for,I made sure I did it perfectly. Only me, no one else...
That's what a real man does, son. You better start taking notes."
Back to the day of their first official and in-person meeting, his gaze drifted toward the door again, a storm of anticipation and unease twisting in his chest, threatening to consume him whole.
And then,"This is the central conference room, ma'am.""Thank you for your help. Have a lovely morning."
Her voice came through the door, soft, composed, like a feather brushing his eardrum, snapping him out of a deep-sea stillness he hadn't even realized he'd sunk into.
The door opened. She stood right there. He rose to his feet, not hastily, but with a tightly coiled strength in every movement. His eyes locked onto her the instant she appeared, as if drawn by instinct. As if she was exactly where she belonged.
"Morning, Lyra Darlin'." His voice was low, slightly rough, sweet like honey steeped in smoke and whiskey, laced with that unmistakable Texas drawl.
His gaze swept slowly over every inch of her, drinking her in. She wore a crisp beige suit, silk blouse tucked into a pencil skirt, every inch the sharp, polished executive.
Logic told him she belonged on a billboard in Times Square, not standing in his damn conference room. But hell, she looked even better than he remembered.
He nodded toward the table, where the coffee cup still gave off gentle heat, and let a lazy, lopsided smile tug at the corner of his mouth."Your caramel latte, just the way you like it. Hope I didn't mess up the sugar." He knew he hadn't, he'd gone and gotten it himself. But damn, if he didn't want her to notice that.
His eyes stayed on her, unwavering. He reached out and pulled out the chair beside him, tapping the back of it lightly in a gentleman's gesture, though the anticipation in his eyes, and the faint glimmer of pride, gave him away.
"Come sit by me, sweetheart." His tone was smooth, casual, but left no room for refusal."We've got plenty of business to get through."
She glanced down at the logo on the cup, fingers steady as she accepted it and read aloud, "Houndstooth Coffee."
A name she remembered from an in-flight magazine, a boutique coffeehouse chain, small in scale but sharply curated, a brand that had intentionally sidestepped the fatigue of mass-market aesthetics.
She recalled a few articles that described it with striking accuracy:Architectural Digest, Eater, both calling it"One of the most worthwhile coffee experiences in Texas."
Its latte art was always delicate. Its flavor, balanced. Especially the lattes and flat whites, crafted with that layered nuance that matched exactly what a Texas morning ought to taste like.
She took a sip. The aroma was gentle, the foam airy. The caramel didn't overwhelm the espresso, instead, it lingered lightly between her teeth, leaving a clean, velvety finish. This was a cup made with thought. She looked up, and met his gaze, bright and unhidden in its anticipation.
There was a beat of silence. Then, she gave a slight nod, a small curve at her lips, measured, just right."This might be one of the best lattes I've ever had. Must add it to my special & personal list from now on." She paused, voice smooth yet unmistakably weighted:"Thank you for your… preferential treatment, Mr. Arthur Graves."
The moment those words left her lips, Arthur's eyes lit up. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, not one of charm or calculation, but something raw, surging up from deep in his chest, dangerously close to breaking past the last line of composure.
God help him, it took every ounce of discipline not to grin like a fool. He had to keep reminding himself: Don't be stupid. Don't look too pleased. Don't act like some idiot falling in love for the first damn time.
But she wouldn't know. She couldn't possibly know. That he tossed and turned until 4AM,that he dragged himself out of bed at 8, drove halfway across Dallas, stood in line at the most painfully pretentious café in the city, just for that one latte she mentioned.
And while he waited, his mind spun in circles:Would she notice? Would she think I'm trying too hard? What if she doesn't even like this flavor? What if this is just me being ridiculous?
But she did notice. She recognized the brand. And more than that, she said the word. Her words like a bullet straight to the chest. She said, "Thank you for your preferential treatment." Not professional, not diplomatic, not some offhand compliment for a business partner.
She saw him. She knew. She knew he was playing favorites, she knew he was taking care of her, and just for her.
Arthur couldn't remember a time in his life when he'd ever wanted so badly to prove himself to someone.
He used to be a proud Marine Corps captain. Now, he was the commander of the most powerful private military force on the planet. He had killed insurgents, dismantled cartels, burned down intelligence networks, rerouted entire arms trades across Latin America, and yet right now, all that glory meant nothing.
His mind was consumed by a single, ridiculous thought:She knows I'm spoiling her? Did she, just for a second, after that sip of coffee, think of me? Am I… also on her "special & personal list"?