The espresso machine at Hayes & Reynolds was not merely a piece of kitchen equipment. It was a temperamental, chrome-plated deity that required daily sacrifices, a working knowledge of Italian engineering, and a profound amount of patience.
“I think it’s angry with me,” Ava said, staring warily at the hissing, steaming monstrosity on the kitchenette counter. “I tried to steam the oat milk, and it made a sound like a dying pterodactyl.”
“You have to coax it, Ava,” Ethan said, walking over and gently nudging her out of the way. He was wearing a faded grey t-shirt and dark jeans, a pencil tucked behind his ear. “It senses fear. You have to approach it with the confidence of a Milanese barista who rides a Vespa.”
“I drive a Subaru and I have a mild dairy intolerance,” Ava pointed out, leaning against the exposed brick wall of their West Loop loft. “I don’t think I can fake that kind of swagger.”
Ethan laughed, expertly twisting the steam wand and producing a perfect, velvety pitcher of micro-foam. He poured it into a ceramic mug, executing a flawless fern pattern in the latte art, and handed it to her.
“Show-off,” Ava muttered, taking a sip. She closed her eyes and
groaned happily. “Okay, fine. You are the coffee whisperer. I concede.” “I’ll add it to my LinkedIn profile,” Ethan smiled, leaning down to
press a quick, coffee-flavored kiss to her mouth.
Ava looked around the office. It was exactly the space Ethan had shown her on his phone a year ago, but it was no longer empty. It was a vibrant, chaotic, beautiful reflection of the two of them.
The massive industrial windows let in a flood of afternoon sunlight. There were three large, reclaimed-wood desks arranged in an open pod. The walls were covered in corkboards, sticky notes, and framed campaign posters. In the center of the room, Pixel the beagle was currently asleep on a plush, mustard-yellow rug, his paws twitching as he dreamed of chasing squirrels.
It wasn’t a glass box. It was a home.
The heavy wooden door at the front of the loft swung open, hitting the brick wall with a loud thud.
“I need a drink,” Sarah Patel announced, marching into the office. She was wearing a razor-sharp, tailored white power suit and carrying a massive leather tote bag. “I need a drink, I need a carbohydrate, and I need someone to tell Marcus Kline that if he uses the phrase ‘synergistic paradigm shift’ one more time, I am going to legally change my name and move to the woods.”
“Afternoon, Madam Vice President,” Ava grinned, walking over to hug her best friend. “Rough morning at Summit?”
“I am managing three time zones, Ava,” Sarah groaned, dropping her bag onto the floor and collapsing onto the small velvet sofa in the corner. “I woke up at four a.m. to yell at the London office, and I have to stay up until midnight to yell at Tokyo. I am fueled entirely by spite and dry shampoo.”
“You love it,” Ethan called out from the kitchenette, pulling a fresh lemon-poppy-seed muffin from a glass dome on the counter and tossing it to Sarah.
Sarah caught it with one hand. “I do love it. The power is intoxicating. But the jet lag is ruining my skin.” She took a massive bite of the muffin. “Oh my god, Ava. You’re still stress-baking?”
“I’m joy-baking,” Ava corrected, sitting on the edge of Ethan’s desk. “It’s a completely different psychological profile. I bake when we land a new client. And since we just signed the boutique hotel group in Denver this morning, I made three dozen.”
“You guys got the Denver account?” Sarah sat up, her eyes wide. “Ava, that’s huge! That’s a massive retainer.”
“It is,” Ethan agreed, walking over and wrapping an arm around Ava’s waist. “Turns out, when you pitch a campaign based on actual
human emotion instead of just frictionless velocity, people tend to respond well.”
“I taught him that,” Ava told Sarah proudly. “She did,” Ethan confirmed without hesitation.
“Well, congratulations,” Sarah said, raising her muffin in a toast. “Hayes & Reynolds is officially a threat to my market share. Kline is going to be furious.”
“Kline sends us a fruit basket every Christmas,” Ava pointed out. “He loves us. We’re his greatest success story.”
The front door opened again. Julian Vance strolled in, carrying a massive portfolio case. He was wearing his signature black denim jacket, his dark curls slightly damp from the autumn drizzle outside.
He stopped in the doorway, his dark eyes locking immediately onto Sarah.
“What are you doing here?” Julian asked, his voice dropping into its familiar, gravelly drawl.
“I am visiting my friends, lumberjack,” Sarah shot back, her spine snapping straight. “Some of us have social lives outside of brooding in dark rooms and listening to obscure indie vinyl.”
“I don’t brood,” Julian said, walking over to his designated desk in the corner of the loft. He dropped his portfolio case onto the wood. “I observe. And currently, I am observing that you are sitting on my velvet sofa, eating a muffin, and getting crumbs on the upholstery.”
“It’s Ava’s sofa,” Sarah argued.
“I picked it out,” Julian countered. “Therefore, it is under my aesthetic jurisdiction.”
Ava and Ethan exchanged a highly amused look.
Julian had officially joined Hayes & Reynolds as their lead Art Director six months ago. He claimed he only took the job because he liked the exposed brick, but Ava knew the truth. He took the job because the Summit Strategies office was three blocks away, which meant Sarah could drop by for lunch.
“Julian, did you finish the logo mockups for the Denver hotel?” Ethan asked, attempting to intervene before Sarah actually threw her muffin at him.
“I did,” Julian said, pulling a sleek black folder from his case and tossing it onto Ethan’s desk. “They’re brilliant. They capture the rustic elegance of the Rocky Mountains while maintaining a clean, modern silhouette. You’re welcome.”
“Thank you,” Ava said, opening the folder. She gasped softly. The logos were, in fact, stunning. “Julian, these are gorgeous.”
“I know,” Julian said, leaning against his desk and crossing his arms over his chest. He looked back at Sarah. “So, Patel. Are we still on for tonight?”
Sarah paused mid-chew. A faint, telltale flush of pink crept up her neck. “That depends. Are you still insisting on taking me to that terrible vegan tapas place that smells like patchouli?”
“It’s not terrible, it’s highly rated on Yelp,” Julian defended smoothly. “And yes. I made a reservation for eight.”
“Fine,” Sarah huffed, standing up and brushing the invisible crumbs off her white suit. “But if I am still hungry afterward, you are buying me a cheeseburger.”
“I wouldn’t dream of denying you a cheeseburger, Sarah,” Julian said, a slow, devastatingly fond smirk spreading across his face.
Sarah grabbed her leather tote bag, her cheeks burning bright red. “I have to go. I have a conference call with the New York team. Ava, Ethan, congratulations on the Denver account. I’ll see you guys this weekend.”
She marched toward the door, pausing just as she reached Julian. She didn’t look at him, but she reached out and aggressively straightened the collar of his denim jacket.
“Eight o’clock,” Sarah warned him. “Don’t be late.” “I’m never late,” Julian murmured.
Sarah rolled her eyes and swept out of the office, the heavy door clicking shut behind her.
Julian stood there for a second, staring at the closed door, before letting out a long, quiet exhale. He looked over at Ava and Ethan, who were both grinning at him like idiots.
“Not a word,” Julian warned them, pointing a finger. “Not a single word from either of you.”
“We didn’t say anything,” Ethan laughed, holding his hands up in surrender.
“You were thinking it,” Julian grumbled, sitting down at his desk and opening his laptop. “I hate both of you. I’m going to put on my noise-canceling headphones now. Do not perceive me.”
He slid a pair of massive black headphones over his ears and aggressively began clicking his mouse.
Ava leaned her head against Ethan’s shoulder, laughing softly. “They are going to get married, and their wedding is going to be a bloodbath.” “I give it two years,” Ethan agreed, wrapping his arms around her from behind and resting his chin on the top of her head. “Julian is going
to propose in the middle of an argument about font kerning.”
They stood there for a moment, watching the afternoon sun filter through the massive industrial windows, casting long, golden shadows across the hardwood floor. The office was quiet, save for the faint, rhythmic clicking of Julian’s mouse and the soft snoring of the beagle on the rug.
It was a perfect, ordinary Tuesday.
“Hey,” Ethan murmured, his breath warm against her ear. “We did good today.”
“We did,” Ava agreed, turning in his arms to face him. “The Denver pitch was flawless. You caught my cue on the demographic slide perfectly.”
“I always catch your cues, Red.”
He smiled, that warm, easy, devastatingly handsome smile that still made her heart skip a beat. He reached up, gently tucking a stray strand of auburn hair behind her left ear.
Ava didn’t flinch. She didn’t tap her ear twice. The nervous “tell” that had plagued her for years had almost completely vanished. She didn’t need to hide her anxiety anymore, because she didn’t have anything to be anxious about.
She was safe. She was home.
“Come upstairs with me,” Ethan said softly, taking her hand. “Upstairs? Ethan, it’s four o’clock on a Tuesday. We have a business
to run.”
“Julian is wearing his noise-canceling headphones,” Ethan pointed out, lacing his fingers through hers. “He won’t even notice we’re gone. Come on. Just for ten minutes. I want to celebrate.”
Ava let him lead her toward the back of the loft, where a heavy iron spiral staircase led up to the building’s private rooftop access.
They climbed the stairs, pushing open the heavy metal door at the
top.
The crisp, autumn air hit them instantly. The rooftop was a sprawling, flat expanse of tar and gravel, offering a breathtaking, unobstructed view of the Chicago skyline. The Willis Tower loomed in the distance, its glass catching the fiery orange and pink hues of the setting sun.
Ethan walked over to the low parapet wall at the edge of the roof, leaning his forearms against the brick. Ava joined him, standing close enough that their shoulders brushed.
The city hummed below them-a steady, rhythmic heartbeat of traffic, sirens, and millions of people rushing to get somewhere.
“I love it up here,” Ava breathed, watching the sky turn the color of a bruised peach. “It makes everything feel so small.”
“It makes everything feel exactly the right size,” Ethan corrected quietly.
He turned to look at her. The golden hour light caught the sharp angles of his face, illuminating the faint, happy lines around his eyes. He looked so different from the exhausted, lonely man who had walked into Conference Room B a year ago. He looked grounded. He looked at peace.
Ethan reached over and took her left hand. He didn’t say anything for a moment. He just looked down at their joined hands, his thumb tracing the line of her knuckles.
Then, slowly, deliberately, he reached over with his right hand and unbuckled the leather strap of the vintage 1970s Omega watch on his left wrist.
Ava’s breath hitched. She watched as he pulled the watch free, the silver casing glinting in the fading sunlight.
He had worn it every single day for seven years. It had been his penance, his anchor, his constant reminder of the girl he had left behind.
Ethan looked at the watch in his palm. He ran his thumb over the scratched glass face one last time.
Then, he slipped it into the front pocket of his jeans.
Ava stared at him, her heart hammering a frantic, chaotic rhythm against her ribs. “Ethan?”
“It loses three minutes every week,” Ethan said softly, looking up to meet her eyes. “I’m tired of resetting it.”
“You’re taking it off ?” Ava whispered, the magnitude of the gesture washing over her.
“I don’t need it anymore,” Ethan said, his voice thick with a fierce, overwhelming love. He reached out, cupping her face in both of his hands. His thumbs gently stroked her cheekbones. “I wore it because I was terrified of forgetting what it felt like to be with you. I wore it because I needed a reminder of where my home was.”
He leaned in, his forehead resting against hers.
“But I don’t need a reminder anymore,” Ethan breathed, his hazel eyes locking onto hers with absolute, unwavering certainty. “Because you’re right here. You’re my home, Ava. You’re my sanctuary. And I am never, ever leaving again.”
A single, happy tear spilled over Ava’s lashes. She didn’t bother wiping it away. She reached up, her hands wrapping around his wrists, holding him exactly where he was.
“I love you,” Ava whispered, the words carrying the weight of seven years of history, of heartbreak, and of a hard-won, beautiful redemption.
“I love you too, Red,” Ethan murmured. He kissed her.
It wasn’t the desperate, starving kiss of the coat check closet, and it wasn’t the frantic, reckless kiss of the Zen Den. It was a slow, deep, profoundly certain kiss. It was the kiss of a man who had finally stopped running, and a woman who had finally stopped building walls.
Below them, the city of Chicago continued its relentless, frictionless velocity. The world kept spinning, the traffic kept moving, and the corporate ladders kept demanding to be climbed.
But up on the roof, surrounded by the golden light of the setting sun, Ava and Ethan stood perfectly still.
They had survived the pitch. They had survived the promotion.
They had survived themselves.
And as Ethan pulled her closer, wrapping his arms around her to shield her from the autumn wind, Ava knew that their second pitch was the only one that had ever really mattered.
Because this time, they had finally closed the deal.