(Poorv’s POV)

I don’t usually show up at the same place two days in a row.
Mostly because I hate being predictable — but also because I like pretending I’m not the kind of guy who gets distracted.

And yet, there I was again.
Outside The Little Whisk, camera slung around my neck, pretending to check the light when really, I was checking the door.

I told myself it was research. I wanted to do a short piece on local businesses — a feature for the travel column I sometimes freelanced for. A harmless excuse. But deep down, I knew I was lying.

I just wanted to see her again.

Mira.
The baker with charcoal on her wrist and sarcasm baked into her smile.

She was wiping the counter when I walked in, hair tied up loosely, soft strands falling by her cheek. The bell chimed, and she looked up — her eyes lighting up in a way that ruined my self-control for the day.

“You really don’t take hints, do you?” she said.

“I do,” I replied easily. “I just choose to ignore them.”

She rolled her eyes but motioned toward the counter. “Fine. You can have your cinnamon roll. It’s fresh this time.”

“Good,” I said, leaning forward slightly. “Because I’m fresh too.”

She didn’t even blink. “That’s one word for it.”

I grinned. “Care to suggest another?”

“Yes,” she said. “Annoying.”

And there it was — that half-second delay before she smiled. She tried to hide it behind her hand, but I saw it. I always did.

When she turned to get my order, I watched her move — calm, precise, with that kind of focus that only people who genuinely love what they do have. There was something addictive about it. Something grounding.

She placed the cinnamon roll and coffee on the counter. “So, Mr. Journalist-slash-Photographer-slash-Troublemaker,” she said, “what’s today’s excuse?”

I took a sip, pretending to think. “Let’s see… I was going to write about the town. But then I realized I’d rather write about the person who makes it smell like sugar and cinnamon.”

Her lips parted slightly, then she laughed — soft this time. “You do know flattery doesn’t count as payment, right?”

“Noted,” I said. “But I’m still trying. I have more words than money anyway.”

“Good,” she said, smirking. “That means you can keep talking while I clean up.”

So I did.
I told her about how I’d left Delhi for a break — how the city felt too loud, too fast, too much of everything. And she listened — really listened — while wiping flour from her palms and pretending she wasn’t invested.

When she spoke, her voice was quieter. “I get that. I left Delhi too.”

I looked at her, surprised. “You did?”

She nodded. “College there. Too crowded. Too many people who think silence means failure.”

There it was — that subtle shift. The space between us filled with something unspoken, something softer than before.

“Maybe we’re both hiding here then,” I said.

“Maybe,” she said. “Or maybe we just found somewhere that feels a little more like us.”

Her words lingered longer than the smell of coffee.

I wanted to say something — anything — but before I could, a customer walked in, breaking the moment. She turned to greet them, and I stood there like an idiot with my cup half-finished and my heart doing something I wasn’t ready to name.

When I finally left, I paused by the door. “Hey, Mira?”

She looked up, eyebrow raised. “What?”

I smiled. “Tomorrow, same time?”

She hesitated — just for a beat — then said, “If you bring something new to say.”

“Deal,” I said.

As I walked out into the chill, the world felt lighter again. Maybe it was the mountain air.
Or maybe it was her.

Either way, I already knew — tomorrow couldn’t come fast enough.