(Mira’s POV)

The next morning, I told myself I wouldn’t think about him.

The journalist with the smug grin and ridiculous turtleneck.
The one who thought flirting was a full-time job.
The one whose voice somehow replayed in my head when I was kneading dough.

Nope. Not thinking about him.
Not even a little.

I dusted the counter with flour, humming under my breath as the morning light filtered through the big window. The bakery was quiet — my favorite kind of quiet — with only the soft whir of the oven and the faint smell of vanilla.

And then the doorbell chimed.

I didn’t have to look up to know who it was. The air shifted, just like yesterday — confident footsteps, a faint rustle of paper, the low sound of someone pretending to cough just to get my attention.

I exhaled. “We’re out of cinnamon rolls.”

“Tragic,” came that familiar voice. “I only walked through half the town for one.”

I turned around — there he was. Poorv. Same dimple, same grin, same annoyingly easy charm. But this time, no turtleneck. A plain brown jacket, sleeves rolled, camera hanging around his neck.

He looked... less like a stranger and more like a story.

“Journalist, huh?” I said, arching a brow. “Planning to expose my baking crimes to the world?”

“Actually,” he said, leaning on the counter, “I was thinking of doing a photo feature. ‘Local bakery owner bribes tourists with sugar and sarcasm.’”

I smiled despite myself. “Catchy. But it’s missing a lawsuit.”

He laughed — that same deep, careless sound — then slid a photo across the counter.

It was a shot of my bakery window from outside. Warm lights glowing against the morning mist. A tray of cupcakes just visible through the glass.

It looked... beautiful.
Like something out of one of those slow, quiet films where everything feels softer than reality.

“You took this?” I asked.

He nodded. “Yesterday. After I left.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “It looked like peace.”

That caught me off guard. His voice wasn’t teasing when he said it. Just… honest.

For a second, the bakery felt smaller. The sound of the oven faded. It was just him, standing there with his camera, looking at me like I was part of that peace he was talking about.

I cleared my throat, breaking the silence. “You realize that’s a weird thing to say to someone you just met?”

He smiled, softer this time. “Maybe. But I figured you’d appreciate weird.”

I rolled my eyes, but the corners of my mouth betrayed me. “So you’re a journalist and a photographer? Multitasking much?”

“Occupational hazard,” he said again. “I see things. Try to hold on to them.”

I wanted to say something witty back — but for once, the words didn’t come.
Because under all that playful confidence, there was something about him that felt unexpectedly… genuine.

I reached for the photo again, brushing my fingers against the edge — accidentally grazing his hand. It was warm. Solid. Too real.

We both froze for a second, then pulled back like the counter had turned into a live wire.

“Uh, so—” I started.

“Right, yeah—” he said at the same time.

And then we both laughed — that awkward, helpless kind of laughter that fills the silence instead of breaking it.

“Come tomorrow,” I said before I could stop myself. “The cinnamon rolls will actually be ready then.”

He looked at me for a long second — like he wasn’t sure if I was joking.

Then he grinned. “That sounds dangerously like an invitation.”

I smirked. “Or a trap.”

“I’m fine with both.”

When he left, I watched from the window as he paused to take another photo — this time of the sign outside that said Happiness is baked fresh daily.

And maybe it was just me…
but somehow, that morning, it felt true.