Steam curls lazily from the simmering pots as she moves through the kitchen, methodical and exact. Every slice, every stir, is measured—no wasted motion, no room for error. The knives are extensions of her will, sharp and steady.

Her gaze flickers toward the café floor through the glass partition. He’s here again. Sitting awkwardly at the table he hasn’t quite made his own yet, gripping the cup like it’s a lifeline. The way he pulls the rim to his lips—hesitant, careful—it’s almost predictable.

She’s watched him more times than she can count. Not because she’s curious. Because it’s necessary. He belongs here. To her. Not in some reckless, fiery way, but in the quiet certainty that he already does, deep beneath the surface. The small details betray him: the lukewarm coffee just how he likes it, the playlist he curls into like a shield, the way he tries to disappear but never quite manages it.

She left the notebook on the bench for him to find, words folded like a secret between pages. A puzzle meant to pull him closer, even if he doesn’t know it yet.

Her phone buzzes softly—his latest story, timestamped late, a blurred café corner with his chipped thumbnail in frame. She doesn’t hesitate. Memorized. Logged. Understood.

The knife glides through the tomato again, smooth and precise. No hesitation. No distraction.

Her thoughts don’t wander. They focus. On him. On the invisible thread pulling taut between them.

The thunder murmurs beyond the windows, but she barely hears it. Because she already knows he’s here.
And no matter what, he’s hers.

The thunder murmurs beyond the windows, but she barely hears it. Because she already knows he’s here.
And no matter what, he’s hers.

She perches on the high stool behind the service counter, sketchbook open but untouched. Every so often, her pencil hovers over the page—arched lanterns, trailing ivy—but her gaze is locked on him.

He sits at the second table from the window, sleeves rolled up, knuckles white around his cup. He lifts it, sips—lukewarm, exactly as she arranged. His brow furrows ever so slightly. Detail logged: he hates hot drinks.

The kitchen’s hum fades into a private silence. Her phone, face‑down in her apron pocket, has already collected tonight’s few location tags and café snaps he couldn’t resist sharing. She’s pieced together his routine: the hours he comes, the playlist he buries himself in.

A memory sparks—her ex’s voice, low and dangerous: “You’ll never leave me.” She remembers the bite of his words, the violence that followed, the blade she learned to wield in self‑defense. Her breath flutters. Enough. Emotion is a weapon only when tamed.

She sketches a thin margin note beside her décor doodles: “He notices shadows.” Another flash: a waiter’s tray brushing his arm—he flinched. Perfect.

Eyes narrowing, she imagines slipping from behind the counter to leave a scrap of paper in his path—maybe his name in looping ink, maybe a line from her poetry. But she resists. Patience wields more power than impulse.

Another rumble of thunder, and she feels it in her chest like a promise. He shifts, glancing up, fingers twitching against the cup. Awareness blooms in him—good. That spark of tension will draw him closer.

She closes her sketchbook, pressing her notes flat under her arm. Time to gather more: the names on his pages, the exact hesitation in his text. Every nuance becomes her blueprint.

Because possession isn’t brute force. It’s the quiet certainty of knowing someone’s heart better than they know it themselves. And Priya already knows his—bone, marrow, and all.

She steps off the stool—but doesn’t move toward him. Instead, she drifts into the flurry of café life, a silent shadow weaving between tables and machines.

From the corner of her eye, she watches him shift in his seat, brow knitting as he rereads the same line in his notebook for the third time. Good. Confusion is the first crack in certainty.

Behind the counter, she reaches for the sugar jar, then pauses—tilts it just so, so that when he comes to sweeten his coffee, one stray granule spills onto the rim. A small imperfection, impossible to ignore.

She adjusts the playlist on the café’s speaker—swapping his looping panic mix for a single, unfamiliar piano piece with a melancholic edge. The melody drifts across the room, brushing his senses before he realizes it.

With careful nonchalance, she twists the chair he’s at by an inch, angling it toward the door. Let him feel that slight shift in perspective. Let it unsettle him.

A soft tap at the espresso machine. She wipes it clean, leaving her thumbprint in the mist. She knows he’ll see it—if he’s watching.

All the while, she sketches invisible margins in her mind: the way his eyes flicker to the sugar jar, the pause when the music changes, the slight lean toward the open door. Each hesitation recorded.

The thunder murmurs again, distant and patient. He glances up, scanning the café as though expecting an answer painted on the walls.

She stays tucked behind the counter, heart steady, emotion contained. Because real power isn’t in a bold move—it’s in the subtle ones no one notices until it’s too late.

And somewhere in the quiet between raindrops, she sows the next seed of doubt that will draw him deeper into her world.

The thunder murmurs beyond the windows, but she barely hears it. Because she already knows he’s here.
And no matter what, he’s hers.

She sits at the end of the counter, sketchbook open but untouched. Ink stains bloom in the corners of the page, but her eyes aren’t on it. They’re tracking movement. His.

Not his usual table. He hesitated at first—left hand hovering near a chair he’s taken before—then shifted, choosing one closer to the library corner. Fewer reflections on the glass. Fewer eyes. He thinks that way, always.

His cup lands before him with a quiet clink. Mint-chocolate, perfectly warm. Not steaming. Not scorching. She made sure of it.

He lifts it to his lips, takes a careful sip—and doesn’t flinch this time.

Good.

He won't notice what that means. Not consciously. But a seed is a seed, even when buried under foam.

Behind the counter, one of the junior baristas frowns at the frother, then glances over.

“This texture okay?” he asks, brow knitted.

She leans in, checks the consistency with a tilt of her head. “Less air,” she says. “Angle the pitcher lower. You’re chasing silk, not clouds.”

He nods, adjusts. Tries again. The sound sharpens, cleaner.

She hums softly—just enough praise to motivate. Never too much. Keep them striving. Keep them dependent.

A moment later, a glass slips in the prep area, shattering like a clap of thunder.

Heads turn. She’s already moving.

“Careful,” she says. “Don’t reach in. I’ve got it.”

She kneels, gloved hands sweeping up the shards with deliberate precision. She doesn’t allow anyone else to handle breakage. The younger staff obey, stepping back. Someone fetches a dustpan. Someone else a mop. It’s all automatic now.

When she finishes, she straightens and brushes her palms against her apron. “Reset the station,” she says. Calm, even. “Everything else as it was.”

Control returns like a tide.

She drifts back to her spot behind the counter, hands resting near the day’s inventory list, but her eyes are elsewhere again. His thumb taps the side of his cup. He glances at the window, then back to the notebook.

The one she placed there last night.

Tucked barely within reach. Not flashy. Just old enough to tempt, just strange enough to whisper.

He hasn’t opened it yet.

But he will.

One of the café’s regulars steps up—a woman from the tailoring shop two streets down. She chats easily, complimenting the latest monsoon-themed pastries, asking about Priya’s parents.

“They’re good,” she replies with a soft smile. “A little too eager to get me married off, but that’s just tradition talking.”

The woman laughs. She does, too. Gentle. Relatable. Exactly who she needs to be.

A phone buzzes quietly at her hip. She steps back, checks the screen. Her brother. Aarav.

She types a quick reply.
Still alive. Yes, I ate. Tell Ma to chill.

A lie. She hasn’t eaten since dawn. But she’ll cook later. Always does.

By the time she looks back up, he’s holding the notebook. Turning it over once, twice. His eyes narrow. He glances around.

Not yet.

Don’t read it just yet.

She wants him to feel it first. That edge of wrongness. That ache of being known too closely. Then he’ll read. Then he’ll wonder.

Behind her, the radio murmurs a half-forgotten ghazal. The scent of cardamom curls through the air. She picks up a clean cup, wipes it once more than necessary, and sets it aside.

It’s almost time.

And when he finally turns the page—
She’ll already know which sentence caught him first.