By Thursday, the city had dried into sunlight again. The sea breeze carried the scent of salt and vanilla, drifting through the open door of Café Lumièra. Mira had already filled the display case with éclairs, macarons, and two experimental tarts she hadn’t dared to name yet. She was trying to distract herself from the fact that Aiden hadn’t shown up for two days in a row.

She told herself he was busy, that artists disappeared into their work all the time. But the café felt tilted without him—like one of the chairs was uneven, like a rhythm missing its beat.

Carlo was humming off-key as he counted coins in the register. “You’re sighing again,” he said without looking up.

“I’m breathing.”

“Same difference when it’s that dramatic.”

Mira ignored him and boxed up a pastry order. A phone buzzed on the counter. The message read: *‘Delivery for 42 Rue Marin. Customer prepaid. Please include the lemon-rosemary tart.’*

She double-checked the order slip. It was the same address as the old mural studio two streets over—the one Aiden sometimes mentioned.  

Coincidence, she told herself. Still, her hands trembled slightly as she tied the ribbon.

Carlo raised an eyebrow. “Want me to send the delivery boy?”

“I’ll go,” she said too quickly. “He’s on break.”

Carlo smiled knowingly. “Of course he is.”

The streets glowed white with late morning. Mira balanced the pastry box carefully as she walked past the tram stop, the same one where she’d found Aiden’s sketchbook. The wind carried the smell of wet paint and coffee. When she reached the building at 42 Rue Marin, the door was propped open with a paint can.

Inside, the walls were half-covered in color—flowers, waves, and outlines of faces that looked half familiar.  

She heard a voice from the back room: “Come in!”

It was him.

Aiden stood near the far wall, sleeves rolled up, holding a brush thick with blue paint. A streak ran across his cheek like misplaced sky.  

He blinked at her. “You do deliveries now?”

“I… had time,” she said, setting the box on a nearby table.

“Lucky me.” He wiped his hands on a rag, leaving blue fingerprints everywhere. “What’s in it?”

“Lemon-rosemary tart. Someone ordered it.”

“Someone?” His smile was suspiciously innocent.

Mira crossed her arms. “You ordered your own pastry just to make me come here, didn’t you?”

“Technically, I supported local business.”

She tried to stay annoyed. It didn’t last. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re here,” he said, as if that proved something.

He opened the box and inhaled deeply. “Smells like your good mood finally returned.”

“I don’t have moods. I have schedules.”

“Schedules are moods with clocks.”

She wanted to argue but instead laughed—the quick, involuntary kind that always betrayed her.

He gestured toward a half-finished section of wall. “Come here. Tell me what this color looks like to you.”

Mira stepped closer. The paint shimmered somewhere between teal and gray. “It looks like seawater pretending to be sky.”

“That’s poetic,” he said.

“It’s undercooked.”

He chuckled. “Everything in this room is undercooked. Including me.”

She caught herself smiling again. “You always joke when you’re nervous.”

“I’m always nervous when you’re here.”

She turned away, pretending to study the mural. “You’ve been gone two days. I thought maybe—”

He hesitated. “A commission. They wanted something cheerful. I’ve been trying to remember what that looks like.”

She glanced at him. “Cheerful looks like sugar you don’t burn.”

“That’s a tall order.”

“I’m a pastry chef. It’s all tall orders.”

They talked as he painted—about the café, about Carlo’s endless advice, about how tourists always tried to photograph her tarts before eating them. He asked questions she wasn’t used to answering: what she dreamed about, what smell reminded her of home.  

By the time the tart was half gone, she realized an hour had passed.

He stepped back from the wall, admiring the wet paint. “There,” he said. “You’ve officially distracted me.”

“That’s my job, apparently.”

He grinned. “You don’t even realize you’re in half my sketches.”

“I noticed,” she said softly. “And you’re in half my notes.”

They looked at each other—just long enough for silence to fill the space that words couldn’t reach.

Then the paint can tipped.

Blue splashed across the floor, splattering her shoes, her skirt, the corner of the pastry box.

“Oh no—” she gasped.

Aiden froze. “Don’t move!”

“It’s everywhere!”

“Hold still!” He grabbed a rag, crouching to wipe the mess, but his elbow bumped hers. The movement turned chaotic—blue, laughter, and the faint scent of lemon filling the air.

When they finally stopped laughing, they were both streaked with color.

“Congratulations,” she said, breathless. “You’ve painted the pastry chef.”

“Limited edition,” he said. “Abstract realism.”

Mira glanced down at her stained skirt. “I’ll never get this out.”

“Then it’s art now.”

She sighed, defeated. “You’re buying me new shoes.”

“Deal.” He paused. “But you have to bring them here so I can color-match.”

She shook her head, trying not to smile. “You’re unbearable.”

“You say that like it’s new.”

Before she left, he handed her a small envelope smudged with blue fingerprints. “For you.”

She frowned. “What is it?”

“Payment. For the delivery.”

Inside was a simple sketch—her hands holding the tart box, drawn in delicate pencil lines, the ribbon mid-flutter as if caught by wind. At the bottom he had written:  

> *‘Timing is an ingredient too.’*

Mira felt her throat tighten. “You draw faster than you apologize.”

“I rehearse both often,” he said lightly, but his eyes were steady.

She closed the envelope carefully. “Next time, order by phone like a normal person.”

“Next time,” he said, “maybe I’ll just come for coffee.”

She didn’t answer. The sunlight from the window hit his face, and for a moment she saw the same warmth that filled the café every morning. It made her want to bake something new—something with color she couldn’t name yet.

Back at Café Lumièra, Carlo looked up as she entered, paint-stained and dazed.

“Battlefield or date?” he asked.

“Delivery mix-up,” she said.

Carlo grinned. “Ah, the old romantic genre.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide her smile. The scent of lemon still clung to her fingers, mixed faintly with paint. She washed her hands slowly, watching blue spiral down the drain like watercolor.

That night, before closing her notebook, she added a new line:

> “Observation #43 — Some mistakes are just invitations written in paint.”