Setting: Three days later. Late evening. Rain has just passed. Eiran find her still in the café kitchen after hours.

The rain had stopped, but the scent of petrichor lingered like perfume on the stone. Most guests had gone to their cottages. The lights were low across the sanctuary, save for one soft golden glow coming from the café kitchen.

He haven’t expected anyone to still be there.

But when he stepped inside, there she was—Aira, standing barefoot on the cool tiled floor, a soft instrumental song playing from her phone on the counter. She wore a charcoal-gray sweater over a pale dress, sleeves slightly rolled up. Her hair was tied loose, a few strands escaping as she stirred something in a small pot.

She looked up, mildly startled, then smiled.

“I’m sorry,” she said, almost shyly. “I couldn’t sleep. I remembered the lentils you showed me from the farm baskets and thought I’d try something my mother used to make.”

The scent in the air was warm—cumin, turmeric, and a hint of clove.

Eiran smiled. “Smells like comfort.”

“Will you try it with me?” she asked.

He hesitated only a second. Then nodded. “Only if I get to set the table.”

Moments Later

He brought out two bowls, two spoons, and a candle. She giggled when you lit it.
“You’re romantic without realizing it,” she teased.

Eiran paused. “Maybe I do realize it.”

She looked at him, and her smile softened into something slower, more vulnerable.

“I’m glad,” she said.

They both sat near the window, listening to the occasional drip of water from the roof, the kind of silence that didn’t ask to be filled. Just a slow dance of glances, of spoonfuls and stories.

She told him about the first time she cooked with her mother. He told her how he used to burn everything until he learned to treat ingredients like people—patiently, gently, without forcing them.

The candle flickered. Neither of them moved to blow it out.

After Dinner

She stood to wash the bowls, but he touched her wrist.

“I’ll do it.”

She looked at him, hand still in his, eyes unreadable.

Then, softly: “Do you ever feel it too?”

He tilted his head. “Feel what?”

“This… quiet pull. Like something between us is waiting. Not rushing. Just… waiting.”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stepped just slightly closer. Close enough that the candle’s shadow touched both of their faces at once.

“I feel it,” he whispered. “Like the space between us is already familiar. Like I’ve met you before… but I hadn’t earned the right to keep you until now.”

Aira’s breath caught. She didn’t speak.
She didn’t need to.

She reached up slowly, resting her hand lightly against his chest—right where his heartbeat was strongest. Then she nodded.

“Then let’s not rush. But don’t hold back either.”

Eiran smiled.

“No need to,” he said. “You’re already here.”

🌙 And That Night...

He didn’t kiss.
He didn’t need to.

But he stood in the doorway longer than he should have. He held her gaze until the candle burned out on its own. Until her fingers brushed his as she turned to go. Until he realized:

This wasn’t the beginning of love.

This was love in slow bloom—meant to last, not to flare.