Page 73 of Colliding with the Coffee Shop Owner
"This is incredible." He turns to me, expression softened with appreciation. "How did you find it?"
"Accident, actually." I join him at the edge, our shoulders touching. "Got lost hiking my first month here. Sat down to check the map and realized I stumbled on the perfect view."
"Perfect is right." His arm slides around my waist, drawing me closer as we watch the sun begin its gradual descent toward the western peaks. "Thank you for sharing it with me."
The simple gratitude carries a more profound meaning we both recognize. This place represents more than a scenic viewpoint—it's a sanctuary I've kept private until now, a place of personal significance deliberately opened to include him.
We settle on the blanket, backs against sun-warmed stone, as the sky shifts from golden to amber. Below us, lights twinkle as early evening transforms Angel's Peak into a constellation of tiny stars against the darkening landscape.
"I come here when I need perspective." My voice sounds different in this space, more vulnerable and authentic. "When problems seem overwhelming in town, seeing everything from up here reminds me how small they really are in the grand scheme."
"Does it help?" His question feels weighted with more than casual curiosity.
"Usually." I draw my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around them. "Though some problems follow you no matter how high you climb."
His hand finds mine, fingers interlacing. "Like what we do about next week."
The direct acknowledgment of his departure catches me off guard. We've been so careful to avoid the topic, as if not discussing it might prevent it from happening.
"Yes. Like that." My throat tightens around the words. "Though I'm not sure there's anything to do about it. Your life is in California. Mine is here."
"It doesn't have to be that simple." His thumb traces patterns on my palm, a soothing gesture that's become familiar. "Technology makes distance more manageable than ever. Remote work, video calls, regular visits..."
The possibility hangs between us—not a solution but a potential bridge across the gulf that's about to separate our daily lives.
"Long distance." The concept feels both hopeful and inadequate simultaneously. "That's what you're suggesting?"
"I'm suggesting we don't give up on this—on us—just because of geography." His expression in the fading light holds determination and something softer, more vulnerable. "What we've found together in these few weeks is rare. I'm not ready to walk away from it."
The sentiment mirrors my own unspoken feelings, hope blooming cautiously in my chest. "It won't be easy."
"Few things worth having are." His smile carries certainty I wish I could fully share. "I can come back regularly. Every other weekend, at minimum. More when projects allow."
"And what happens when that becomes too difficult? When the novelty wears off and the travel becomes exhausting?" The practical questions emerge from a deep-seated fear of future disappointment. "When your board demands more in-person time, or I'm overwhelmed with running the shop and the online business?"
"Then we adapt. Find new solutions." He turns toward me, eyes holding mine with intensity that makes my breath catch. "I'm not suggesting this would be simple or perfect. I'm saying what we've built is worth the effort to maintain."
The conviction in his voice nearly undoes me.
"I want to believe that's possible."
"It is." He gathers both my hands in his. "These past weeks have changed something fundamental for me. The man who arrived in Angel's Peak was hollow—successful but empty, driven but directionless in any way that actually mattered."
His vulnerability strips away my remaining defenses.
"And now?"
"Now I understand what I've been missing. Connection. Purpose beyond profit. The feeling of contributing to something sustainable rather than just scalable." His forehead touches mine, voice dropping to near-whisper. "You've shown me what matters. I'm not willing to lose that lesson—or lose you."
The mountain falls silent around us, even the breeze pausing as if respecting the gravity of the moment. Neither of us speaks the word "love," yet it saturates every syllable, every touch, every shared glance as sunset paints the sky in impossible colors.
"Six hundred miles." I voice the distance that will soon separate us. "That's a lot of space between coffee and goodnight kisses."
"Just enough room for anticipation to build." His attempt at lightness carries an undercurrent of determination. "Think of it as extended foreplay."
The unexpected description startles a laugh from me, breaking the emotional tension. "That's one way to frame long-distance romance."
"I prefer to see possibilities rather than obstacles." He pulls me closer, arm secure around my shoulders as the first starsappear overhead. "One day at a time. That's how we'll navigate this."
