Uncharted Variables

Chapter 30 : When Variables Align

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Apple wasn't usually the type to act secretive.
But the way she asked me to meet a client this afternoon—half teasing, half insistent—already gave me a strange feeling.

"You have to go, Kia," she'd said, her smile sly but almost nervous. "This is big. Don't be late, don't overthink, and for once, just... go with the flow."

Her words stuck with me. Apple never fussed over details unless something mattered.

Still, I didn't expect to end up here.

Because the address she gave me, the Starbucks she insisted on, wasn't just any branch.

It was that Starbucks.

The one where Quinn and I had our first coffee break years ago.

Back when she was just Ysabelle Quinn Gomez, Marketing Specialist—a quiet colleague whose silence spoke louder than any pitch in a boardroom. Everyone else had been desperate to impress: loud ideas, sharp voices, competitive energy. And then there was Quinn. Always calm. Always composed. Taking notes she barely wrote in, contributing sparingly, but whenever she did speak, the whole room leaned in.

I used to watch her from the corner of my eye, pretending to scroll through emails while secretly memorizing the way her brow furrowed when she thought, how she tucked her hair behind her ear when she was trying not to be noticed.
One afternoon, I walked over to her desk under the pretense of asking about a report. My voice came out more formal than I intended, maybe to hide the nerves. "Hey, Quinn, can I get your input on this?"

When our fingers brushed as I handed her the folder, something jolted through me—like static, but deeper. She didn't say anything, but I knew she felt it too.

As we worked together, I found her staring at me, , "Quinn, are you okay? You seem... distracted." im the back of my head I keep reminding myself to stay calm with her stares.

She laughed awkwardly and shook her head. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just tired."

And then, before I could stop myself, the words slipped out. "Maybe we can grab coffee later and discuss the report?"

The second I said it, I panicked. Was I asking her out? Or was it just a colleague's suggestion? I didn't know how she'd take it—but I knew why I'd asked.

Because I wanted more time with her.

Quinn looked startled for half a second, then nodded, her voice steady. "Sure, that sounds great."

We sat right here, in this very branch. She in a denim jacket, her cup barely touched. Me with a latte I drank too quickly because I was trying to look calm when inside, my heart was hammering. She didn't say much that day. But the silence wasn't awkward—it was magnetic.

That was the first time I admitted to myself: I had a crush on Quinn Gomez.

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And now, years later, I was back in the same place, standing frozen at the door.

But something was off. The branch wasn't crowded like usual. Only a handful of people sat scattered around, their faces partially hidden. The baristas behind the counter wore masks—not the surgical kind, but full-face fabric ones, almost theatrical.

There were decorations too: flowers along the window ledge, soft lights strung carelessly across the ceiling, as though the place had been dressed for an event.

And then I saw it.

A piano in the corner.

Starbucks didn't have pianos.