The hotel café occupied a quiet corner of the lobby, designed with the kind of understated elegance that made intimate conversation feel natural. Soft jazz played in the background, mixing with the gentle murmur of other conversations and the rhythmic hiss of the espresso machine. Sarah and Daniel found a corner table by the tall windows that looked out onto the busy Chicago street, but the outside world felt distant and irrelevant compared to the electricity crackling between them.
Sarah wrapped her hands around her coffee cup, grateful for something to do with her nervous energy. Across from her, Daniel seemed more relaxed than she felt, leaning back in his chair with the easy confidence she remembered from his classroom. But she caught him stealing glances at her when he thought she wasn't looking, and the careful way he'd chosen his seat—close enough for intimate conversation but far enough to maintain respectability—suggested he wasn't as composed as he appeared.
"So, corporate law," Daniel said, breaking the comfortable silence that had settled between them. "I have to admit, when I saw your name in the alumni newsletter announcing your promotion to senior associate, I was surprised. I always thought you'd end up writing the great American novel."
Sarah laughed, the sound coming out more nervous than she'd intended. "Remember that short story I wrote for your creative writing seminar? The one about the woman who could hear people's thoughts but couldn't turn off the ability?"
"'Silent Screams,'" Daniel said immediately, without hesitation. "You explored the isolation that comes with unwanted intimacy, the burden of understanding others too well. You got an A+, and I wrote a note suggesting you consider submitting it to literary magazines."
Sarah's eyes widened. She remembered the grade, of course, but the specific feedback, the fact that he recalled not just the story but its themes and his response to it after all these years—that was unexpected.
"You remember all that detail about a student paper from five years ago?"
Daniel paused, his coffee cup halfway to his lips, seeming to realize what he'd revealed. A flush crept up his neck, and Sarah felt a corresponding warmth in her chest at this crack in his professional composure.
"I remember a lot about that semester," he said carefully. "You were... you made quite an impression."
The admission hung between them, loaded with implications neither seemed ready to fully address. Sarah felt her heart rate increase, that familiar flutter she'd experienced so often during her senior year whenever Professor Hayes had paid particular attention to her work or ideas.
"I still have it, actually," Daniel continued, then seemed to catch himself again. "I mean, I keep exemplary work from students. For reference. Teaching examples."
But his voice lacked conviction, and Sarah suspected there was more to the story. The thought that he might have kept her work for personal rather than professional reasons sent a thrill through her that she tried to suppress.
"Right," she said softly, unable to keep a hint of skepticism from her voice. "Of course."
An awkward silence settled between them, filled with unspoken questions and half-acknowledged truths. Sarah found herself studying Daniel's hands as he fidgeted with his napkin—long-fingered, expressive hands that had once gestured eloquently while explaining the symbolism in Wuthering Heights. She remembered wondering what those hands would feel like touching her face, her hair, her skin. The thought had scandalized her twenty-two-year-old self; now it made her pulse race with adult desire.
"Why law?" Daniel asked finally, steering the conversation back to safer territory.
Sarah considered her answer carefully. The simple truth was practical—good money, job security, her parents' approval—but sitting across from the man who had once inspired her to write poetry at three in the morning, those reasons felt shallow.
"Practical reasons, mostly," she said honestly. "Good money, job security. My parents were thrilled when I chose law over an MFA program. They'd watched me struggle with writing, seen how competitive and uncertain that world could be."
"But you were talented," Daniel said, leaning forward slightly. "Really talented. That story showed genuine insight into human nature, sophisticated understanding of narrative structure. You had something to say."
The earnestness in his voice, the way he spoke about her work as if it mattered, as if she had mattered, made Sarah's throat tighten unexpectedly.
"Talent doesn't pay student loans," she said, trying to keep her tone light. "Besides, I like what I do. Corporate litigation is intellectually challenging, and I'm good at it. Really good."
"I'm sure you are," Daniel said, and the warmth in his voice made it clear he meant it. "You always had this way of seeing through surface arguments to the core issues. I imagine that serves you well in court."
"It does. But I miss writing sometimes," Sarah admitted, surprising herself with the confession. "The creativity, the freedom to explore ideas without worrying about billable hours or client objectives. Sometimes I feel like I'm using only half my brain."
"It's not too late, you know," Daniel said gently. "To write again. Some of the best authors didn't publish their first novels until their thirties or forties. Life experience can deepen writing, give it weight it might have lacked earlier."
"Says the man who published three novels while maintaining a full-time teaching load," Sarah teased, grateful for the lighter turn in the conversation.
Daniel's expression grew more serious, and Sarah detected something she couldn't quite identify in his eyes—disappointment? Regret?
"Speaking of which, I have some news that might surprise you. I'm actually leaving Northwestern at the end of this semester."
Sarah felt a sharp pang of loss that caught her off guard. Even though she hadn't seen Daniel in five years, somehow knowing he was still in their old university, still walking the same halls where they'd first met, had been oddly comforting.
"What? Why?" she asked, unable to hide her surprise.
"I got an offer from Meridian Publishing in New York. Senior editor position, focusing on contemporary literary fiction. It's an opportunity to work directly with authors, help shape books that might matter. After fifteen years of teaching, it feels like time for something new."
"That's amazing," Sarah said, forcing enthusiasm into her voice while processing her own unexpected reaction to his news. "Congratulations. That sounds like a perfect fit for you."
"Thank you," Daniel replied, studying her face with an intensity that made her feel exposed. "It's exciting, but also terrifying. Starting over at thirty-five isn't exactly comfortable."
They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, both lost in their own thoughts. Sarah found herself wondering about Daniel's life beyond his career—whether he was happy, whether he'd found love, whether the loneliness she'd sometimes sensed beneath his professional confidence had been resolved.
"What about you?" Daniel asked, as if reading her thoughts. "Seeing anyone special?"
The question was casual, but Sarah detected something underneath it—hope, maybe? Or was she projecting her own feelings onto his innocent inquiry?
"No," she said simply. "Work keeps me pretty busy. Eighty-hour weeks don't leave much time for relationships."
That was partially true, but not the whole story. She'd dated over the past five years—intelligent, successful men who looked good on paper and made her parents proud. But none of them had sparked the kind of intellectual and emotional connection she'd experienced with Daniel. None of them had made her feel truly seen, truly understood in the way he had during those long conversations about literature and life.
"What about you?" she asked, trying to keep her voice neutral.
"Same," Daniel replied, his green eyes holding hers. "Work has been... consuming."
The way he said it made Sarah wonder if there was more to the story. There was something in his expression, a weight that suggested experiences she knew nothing about. But she didn't press, recognizing the boundaries that still existed between them despite the years that had passed.
"I can't believe it's been five years," she said instead.
"You were always mature for your age," Daniel said, his voice taking on a more personal tone. "Even then, you seemed older than your classmates. More serious, more focused on what really mattered."
"Is that your polite way of saying I was uptight?" Sarah laughed, but there was genuine curiosity in the question.
"No," Daniel said seriously, his gaze intensifying. "You were focused. Passionate about ideas. You knew what you wanted and weren't afraid to pursue it, even when it challenged conventional thinking."
Except for one thing, Sarah thought. I never pursued what I really wanted.
The thought surprised her with its clarity. Sitting across from Daniel, feeling the same intellectual and emotional connection that had captivated her five years ago, she realized that part of her had been waiting. Waiting for this moment, this opportunity, this chance to discover what might have been possible if circumstances had been different.
"Did you ever think about..." Sarah began, then stopped herself, suddenly aware of how dangerous this territory was.
"About what?" Daniel prompted, leaning forward slightly.
Sarah shook her head, her lawyer's training warning her against revealing too much too quickly. "Nothing. It's silly."
But Daniel wasn't willing to let it go. "Tell me, Sarah. We're both adults now. Whatever you're thinking, you can say it."
The intensity in his voice, the way he said her name with such familiar warmth, made Sarah's heart race. She looked down at her coffee cup, gathering courage she hadn't needed in courtrooms facing hostile witnesses.
"Did you ever think about me?" she asked quietly. "After I graduated?"
The question hung in the air between them, more intimate than anything they'd ever shared during her college years. When Sarah finally looked up, Daniel's expression was unreadable, but his eyes held hers with an intensity that made her feel dizzy.
"Yes," he said quietly, his voice rough with honesty. "More than I should have."