(Mira’s POV)

I had flour in my hair again. Not the poetic kind — actual flour, dusted over my bun like a lazy snowfall. I brushed it off halfheartedly as I stepped out of The Little Whisk, my tiny bakery tucked near Mall Road.

It was barely eight in the morning, and Shimla’s air was already nipping at my fingers — crisp, pine-scented, and just cold enough to make me wish I’d worn thicker socks. The hills were still wrapped in fog, sleepy and quiet, the kind of silence that makes you forget the world has deadlines.

This was my favorite time of day — when it was just me, the smell of cinnamon rolls fresh from the oven, and the promise of coffee strong enough to restart a tired soul.

If you’d told me two years ago that I’d be here — a 22-year-old college dropout running a bakery — I would’ve laughed. Back then, I was buried under a marketing degree in Delhi and the noise of people who thought ambition had one definition. Now I bake, sketch on weekends, and breathe a little easier.

The café next door does better cappuccinos than I do, so I wandered there, clutching my coat and muttering, “Coffee first, existential crisis later.”

That’s when I saw him.

Tall. Broad shoulders. Wearing a black turtleneck that looked expensive and unnecessary for early-morning pastry shopping. His hair was slightly damp — like he’d just walked through the fog on purpose.

He turned a little, and I caught his face — sharp jawline, faint stubble, and eyes that looked like they’d already read your story and were just waiting for the twist.

Then he caught me looking.

“You’re staring,” he said, amusement dancing in his voice.

“You were blocking the menu,” I replied automatically.

“Was I?” His lips curved. “Or were you just deciding if I was on it?”

I blinked. “Wow. Confident, aren’t we?”

“Optimistic,” he said with a lazy grin. “It’s a good trait before coffee.”

“Some of us have dough to knead, so maybe hurry up, Mr. Optimistic.”

He laughed — that kind of deep, easy sound that lingers longer than it should. “Baker?” he asked.

“Among other things.”

“Like?”

“Like none of your business.”

He tilted his head. “Mysterious artist who secretly sketches people when they’re not looking, then.”

I stared at him. “How do you—”

He pointed at the charcoal smudges on my wrist. “Caught red-handed. Or, well… gray-thumbed.”

I tried not to smile. “Maybe I just wrestled with a burnt cookie.”

“Or maybe,” he said, leaning just close enough for his voice to drop, “you like hiding pretty things in plain sight.”

My breath hitched. Not because of what he said — but how he said it. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Thankfully, my coffee arrived, saving me from the heat creeping up my neck. I grabbed it, flashed him a polite-not-polite smile, and said, “Well, Mr. Optimistic, I hope your pastry’s as smooth as your lines.”

He tilted his head, watching me as I turned. “I’ll let you know,” he said. “Maybe I’ll drop by your bakery to compare.”

“Please don’t,” I tossed over my shoulder — but my grin probably gave me away.

As I walked back through the fog, the warmth of the cup seeped through my palms, and I caught myself smiling.

Shimla mornings had a way of surprising me — but this one felt like the start of trouble.

The kind that smells faintly of cinnamon and danger.