(Poorv’s POV)

There are moments that shouldn’t stay with you — but do.
Like the smell of coffee after rain.
Or the way a stranger looks at you like they’ve already read the next line you’re about to say.

That’s exactly how she’d looked at me.
Flustered but composed. Sharp-tongued but soft around the edges. The kind of girl who pretends she’s immune to flirting but blushes two seconds after denying it.

Mira.
I caught her name on her takeaway cup — looping handwriting, a tiny doodle beside it. A swirl of stars.

I wasn’t supposed to notice details like that.
I came to Shimla to breathe — not to flirt with girls who smelled like cinnamon and chaos. After two years of working in Delhi’s endless noise — cameras, deadlines, newsrooms — I’d finally taken a break. “Recharge, reset,” my editor said.

But apparently, fate heard “reheat.”

Because a few hours later, I found myself standing outside The Little Whisk.
Totally coincidentally.
Probably.

The bakery looked exactly like her — warm, unbothered, with fairy lights strung unevenly around the door and a chalkboard sign that said, “Happiness is baked fresh daily.”

I pushed the door open, pretending it wasn’t a deliberate decision. Bells chimed, and the smell hit me — butter, sugar, and that same hint of cinnamon that clung to her scarf earlier.

She was behind the counter, hair tied up, cheeks a little flushed from the oven heat. She looked up, saw me — and froze for half a heartbeat before rolling her eyes.

“You’re kidding,” she said. “Did you actually come to compare?”

I grinned. “I told you I might.”

“Well, congratulations. You’ve reached a new level of shameless.”

“Comes with the journalism degree,” I said, leaning casually against the counter. “Occupational hazard.”

“Journalist,” she repeated, like she was mentally adding that to her ‘Reasons to Keep Distance’ list. “Should I worry you’re here for an exposé on my muffins?”

“Maybe,” I said. “If they’re half as interesting as their creator.”

She sighed, but I caught the smile she tried to hide. “You really don’t stop, do you?”

“Not when the view’s this good.”

That earned me a glare — but her cheeks betrayed her.

“Fine,” she said, sliding a plate toward me. “Cinnamon roll. On the house. Maybe if your mouth’s busy eating, it won’t be talking.”

I took a bite, pretending to think. “Flaky. Sweet. Soft. Slightly underbaked in the middle.”

Her jaw dropped. “Excuse me?”

“Like your sarcasm,” I said, licking a trace of icing off my thumb.

She pointed her tongs at me like a weapon. “Careful, Mr. Journalist. I have hot trays and no witnesses.”

“Threats already?” I laughed. “We’re moving fast.”

She shook her head but her lips twitched. “Unbelievable.”

I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the counter. “You know, I could write an entire article about this place. The Bakery That Smells Like Trouble.”

“And you’d get sued for false advertising.”

“Maybe,” I said. “But it’d be worth it.”

For a second — just a second — she met my eyes. No teasing, no guard. And I swear, it felt like the world tilted a bit.

Then she cleared her throat and went back to her tray. “Are you done flirting, or do I need to hand out a queue token?”

I smirked, standing up. “Keep one ready. I’ll be back tomorrow. For research purposes, of course.”

She didn’t look up. “Sure, Mr. Journalist. Research. Try not to trip over your ego on the way out.”

I laughed, pushing the door open again. The bells chimed behind me, and for the first time in months, the world didn’t feel too heavy.

I’d come to Shimla for peace.
Apparently, I’d found trouble instead.
And I couldn’t wait to taste more of it.