The second time he steps into the Monsoon Café, it’s with someone else.

Meera, who has all the subtlety of a glitter bomb, practically drags him by the arm. She’d flooded his DMs the night he posted that blurry corner of a sketch with a line from the poem scrawled beneath it.

@klovesbillies

“Some windows stay open, even in the storm.”
(📍Monsoon Café? Idk.)

The reply came in minutes.

@meerabeautyyy

“WAIT WHO WROTE THAT”
“Omg it’s so tragic. Like Tumblr 2014 tragic.”
“Take me. I wanna feel sad and pretty over coffee 💔✨☕”
“You seriously might be a poetic menace. I’m obsessed.”

And now here she is, dressed like a fashion intern on a rainy Vogue shoot, swanning into the café and declaring loudly, “This is, like, sooo rustic.” She pulls out her phone before she even sits down.

He walks in behind her, quieter, calculating.

The soft chime of the door. The scent of cardamom and roasted coffee. And—

There. Behind the counter.

She doesn’t look up. But he knows she saw him.

He watches the way she arranges the display tray—each pastry aligned, spaced just so. Like a surgeon laying out tools. She’s not just serving; she’s controlling the atmosphere, sculpting the experience down to the lighting.

He doesn’t know if she’s doing it for him or despite him.

Meera doesn’t notice. She’s too busy adjusting her beret and checking her reflection in the spoon.

“You seriously posted that sad poem and now I can’t stop thinking about it,” she says, pouting. “Do you, like, write stuff like that on purpose? Or are you just one of those tortured hot boys who doesn’t know he’s hot?”

He smiles just enough to be dangerous. “I’m just here for the Wi-Fi.”

Meera giggles and nearly knocks over the sugar jar. He catches it with reflexes she doesn’t notice.

But Priya does.

He orders cardamom chai. No sugar.

A test.

And when it arrives—without him having said a word—it’s perfect. Poured into the same worn ceramic style as before, but this one has a tiny curl of cinnamon on top. A detail he’d once posted about—buried in a story from three years ago on his now-defunct second account.

He doesn’t react. He just takes the cup and sips. And locks that moment away.

Meera is already planning a reel.

“Okay babe, smile like you’re tragic. Not actual sad, just like... emotionally complex.”

He leans in, murmurs something that makes her laugh too loud. A gesture. A distraction. A lie that keeps him hidden in plain sight.

But his focus never shifts from the girl behind the counter.

And she still hasn’t looked at him.

Not really.

The clink of ceramic. The hiss of steamed milk. The dull scrape of chair legs. She doesn’t have to look up to know it’s them.

She knows the weight of his footfalls now—softer than most, hesitant, like he’s not sure he belongs. He doesn’t. Not yet.
But he keeps returning, and that is enough.

Her eyes remain fixed on the tamper in her hand, pressing down the espresso with steady, perfect pressure. Still, her ears filter every note of that laugh—the sharp, performative shriek Meera always unleashes when she thinks someone important is watching. Like a child trying to impress her imaginary tea party guests.

Meera. Of course it would be her. Always floating in here like the café is her personal aesthetic prop, ordering drinks she never finishes, taking selfies beside the seasonal display Priya arranged with meticulous detail. The same Meera who once cried over a chipped nail but called Priya “so intense” for not wanting to hook up with someone on a dare.

And now she brings him here.

Priya moves to the next order, hands graceful, deliberate. Not a single tremor betrays her as she layers cinnamon on top of a caramel cloud latte. Meera’s usual. She doesn’t even need to ask anymore. Some customers earn that kind of treatment. Even if they don’t deserve it.

Her gaze flickers, just once, toward the far table. He’s there—messy hair pushed back, eyes sharper than they used to be. Watching. But not at her. Not fully. Not yet.

She studies the way he tugs at the sleeve of his coat, like it’s a nervous tic. The same way he used to fidget in the library, when he thought no one was watching. The same coat from that one blurry post on his story. The same username: @klovesbillies. She’d memorized it within minutes. The playlist linked in his bio told her more than hours of conversation ever could.

And Meera sits across from him like he’s hers to toy with. Like he’s another polished accessory, one she’ll get bored of the second he shows any real emotion. That won’t happen. Priya won’t let it.

“Priya, extra whip on that?” Rahul’s voice slices into her thoughts.

She pastes on her smile. “Already done,” she says, tone syrupy, saccharine. Exactly how they expect her to be.

But behind her eyes, storm clouds brew.

She watches Meera trail her fingers along the rim of her glass. Always flirting with things she doesn’t understand. Rhea was right—girls like Meera don’t recognize danger until it wraps around their throat, velvet-soft and irreversible. She’ll ruin things, just like she always does. Too loud. Too curious.

He leans forward now, saying something quietly, almost shyly. Priya doesn’t hear it—but she sees the way his mouth moves. The way he looks at Meera like he’s testing a performance. Trying on the mask of charm he rarely wears in public.

Good, she thinks. Let him hide behind it.

Because charm cracks, and when it does—it reveals something rawer. She wants that version. The real one. The one she saw that first night, half-lit and rain-soaked, trying not to look lonely.

The bell chimes as a new customer enters. Priya smiles at them automatically, sliding into her role like silk. But her mind stays anchored to the table by the window.

He doesn’t know yet. But this café isn’t neutral ground.
It’s hers.
And she doesn’t share.

The bell above the door sings again.

This time, she doesn’t have to look. The rhythm of footsteps—purposeful, not rushed. The faint jingle of keys on a leather strap. The citrus-wood scent of someone who refuses to buy into the café’s perfume of cloves and cardamom.

Rhea.

Of all people to walk in now.

Priya’s smile tightens, just for a breath. She adjusts a saucer slightly to the left and repositions a napkin stack with obsessive precision. Every motion a rehearsal in restraint.

Rhea's eyes scan the café automatically, like she’s checking exits and entrances. The security guard in her blood always shows, even when she’s off-duty. Her gaze snags on the pair by the window. On him. On Meera. Priya sees the flicker in her brow. Knows that little twitch too well. Rhea doesn’t like what she sees. Neither does Priya.

She waits until Rhea reaches the counter. She doesn’t greet her with the usual brightness, not today.

“You’re late,” Priya says, voice low.

Rhea shrugs. “Traffic. And you didn’t tell me Meera would be here.”

There’s a quiet warning in her tone, unspoken but understood.

Priya keeps her hands busy wiping the espresso station, her motions slow and measured. “She wasn’t supposed to be. She tagged him. I only found out after.”

Rhea leans against the counter. “You knew he was coming though.”

Of course I did.

Priya doesn't answer. She pours a shot, lets the silence do what her words never could.

“I thought we agreed you’d keep distance,” Rhea says, quieter now, only for her.

“I am,” Priya replies, calm, perfectly controlled. “I haven’t said a word to him. Not since the first page turned.”

Rhea glances back at him again. “Then why does he look like he’s being reeled in?”

Because he is.

But Priya says, “That’s his choice. Not mine.”

Rhea’s jaw clenches. She knows this dance. She’s watched Priya pull strings before—on paper, in kitchens, in self-defense classes. Everything Priya touches eventually bends.

“I don’t like her near him,” Priya adds, and this time the heat leaks through. “She doesn’t even see the depth in people. He’s just a novelty to her. A shiny thing.”

“She’s not the one I’m worried about,” Rhea says.

Priya’s expression doesn’t change. But her pulse sharpens. Just for a moment.

“I know what I’m doing,” she says.

“I hope so,” Rhea mutters, and turns to grab her usual chai from the pickup counter without another word.

Priya watches her go to a back table alone. Her eyes flick once more to the window. To the boy wearing someone else’s smile. To Meera, who flutters like she owns him.

They’re playing at something she’s already finished drafting.

He’s here because she led him here.

And Rhea? Rhea will forgive her. Eventually. Like she always does. Because despite everything, Priya never lies. Not really. She just leaves out the parts people don’t want to hear.

The door chimes again, louder this time, wind curling through it like a whisper of warning.

Priya barely notices.

Her eyes are already back on him.

Priya watches him across the café, every muscle in her body tuned to his slightest movement. He lifts the cup to his lips again—slow, deliberate—letting the warmth linger on his bottom lip before tilting the rim just so. Her breath catches. God, how she wishes it was her lips instead of ceramic brushing against his skin.

She imagines the curve of his mouth pressed against hers, the faint taste of cardamom and coffee mingling on her tongue. In her mind’s eye, she trails her fingertips from the hollow of his collarbone up to the graceful line of his jaw, leaning in until the world shrinks to the shallow tremor of his breath against hers. The thought burns hotter than any espresso shot.

He swallows, the chai sliding down his throat, and she watches the dip of his Adam’s apple as though it’s a private invitation. Priya’s pulse drums in her ears. Every micro‑movement—how his lower lip quivers, how his eyes momentarily close—becomes a password she alone can use. She aches to break this careful distance, to seize that moment of raw vulnerability and make it hers.

Meera’s laughter bubbles again, but Priya barely hears it. All she can see is him, the soft curve of his neck, the tense strength in his shoulders. She pictures him unmasked: heat flushing his cheeks, breath ragged, lips parted in a silent plea. Her fingers curl against the cool metal of the milk pitcher. She wants to cup his face, tilt his head up, and possess him with a kiss fierce enough to steal his words. 

The steam wand hisses behind her, dragging her back. She straightens, forcing her movements brisk and precise: pour, tamp, steam. But each action pulses with the dark promise of what waits beyond her control. Her cheeks burn.

Then Rhea’s soft voice cuts through the haze. “Priya?” She’s at the hatch, eyes flicking to his table, then back to Priya’s face. “You okay?”

Priya grips the pitcher tighter, steel in her gaze. “Just busy,” she replies, voice clipped.

Rhea’s lips curve in a half‑smile—knowing, teasing. “Watching him? Again?”

Her words are an accusation, a lifeline, and everything in between. Priya exhales, slow, and sets the pitcher down with deliberate calm. “He’s unsettled,” she says, voice low. “Good.”

Rhea steps back, concern and challenge warring in her eyes. “Be careful,” she murmurs. “Don’t lose him to… whatever this is.”

Priya forces a nod. Rhea turns away, leaving her alone with the hiss of the espresso machine and the low murmur of the café.

She glances through the pass. He’s still there, chin resting in one hand, the other hand tapping twice at the sugar packet, eyes fixed on nothing. Perfect. She’s catalogued that tic, too—another thread in the web she weaves around him.

With a faint, controlled exhale, Priya picks up her sketchbook from the counter. The page she opens to is blank, waiting. Her pencil hovers, then she begins to draw: the curve of his jaw, the tilt of his head as he sips, the tremor of his lip. Beneath the sketch, she writes in tiny looping letters:

“Every hesitation tells the truth.” 

The café’s amber light glows around her, but inside, she’s already crafting the next move—an obsession sharpened by desire, hunger, and the unyielding need to make him hers.

Priya’s pencil hovers over the page, heart hammering as she traces the graceful curve of his jaw. In her mind, she leans in, lips brushing his in a searing kiss—fingers tangling in his hair, breath mingling in the hush between two worlds. She tastes cardamom and coffee, feels the electric shiver of his pulse beneath her palm.

A sudden, high‑pitched meow cuts through her reverie.

Meera’s voice, bright and obnoxious, floats over the counter: “Look! Look at this one—he can’t even jump onto the couch, how pathetic is that?” She flicks her phone around the corner so Priya can’t help but catch a glimpse of a fluffy tabby flailing mid‑leap. The café’s warm jazz warps into something tinny and intrusive.

Priya’s chest tightens. The world snaps back into focus, and with it comes the audacious absurdity of Meera treating his chaos with cute cat memes—trying to win him over with giggles instead of understanding.

She blinks, sets the sketchbook down, and wipes her palms on her apron. Every line of desire and possession fractures under the weight of Meera’s laughter.

He chuckles—light, unguarded—at the video. Priya’s stomach twists. She hates the way he lets that bubble of amusement escape him. Hates Meera for standing between them with her glittery grin and viral distractions.

The milk pitcher vibrates beneath her fingers. She wants to hurl it across the room, shattering porcelain and facades alike. Instead, she grips it tight, deliberate: pour, tamp, steam—actions anchored in control.

“Priya—seriously. He’s obsessed with Mr. Whiskers now,” Meera calls, oblivious to the tension coiling behind the counter.

Priya swallows the sudden burn of jealousy and masks it with a practiced calm. “Give him a moment,” she says, voice low.

Meera giggles again, then pauses—her phone forgotten in her hand—as she catches Priya’s glare in the passing reflection. “You okay?” she asks, breathy.

Before Priya can reply, a softer ripple cuts through the air.

“Priya?” Rhea’s voice, steady and precise, rises from the hatch. “You look like you’d rather be anywhere but here.”

Her words cradle both concern and challenge. Priya turns, sets the pitcher down, and exhales, summoning the grace of her public mask.

“I’m fine,” she says, voice smooth. “Just… juggling orders.”

Rhea’s gaze flicks to Meera’s table, then back to Priya’s drawn face. “Don’t lose him to her noise,” she warns quietly. “He’s not one of your sketches to be eyed next.”

Priya’s jaw clenches. She forces a nod. Rhea retreats, leaving her with the hiss of steam and the stubborn ache of thwarted fantasy.

She glances once more at him—still laughing at a dancing kitten—and knows the path forward: subtle, calculated, inescapable. Because obsession isn’t built on perfect moments; it’s forged in the cracks between them. And Priya will use every fissure Meera creates to claim what’s already hers.