(Mira’s POV)

It’s been raining since dawn — the kind that feels personal, like the clouds forgot how to stop.
Shimla in the rain looks like a painting left out to blur — rooftops melting into mist, the air thick with the smell of wet pine and something quietly romantic.

I almost didn’t open the bakery today. But old habits are hard to break, and hope — apparently — is harder.

And there he was.
Poorv.

He pushed open the door, bringing a gust of cold air and that unreasonably calm smile. His jacket was soaked, his hair dripping slightly over his forehead. He looked like every storm I didn’t know I missed.

“You’ll ruin your camera,” I said, before I could stop myself.

He shrugged. “Worth it if there’s good coffee on the other side.”

I rolled my eyes, already pouring it for him. “Same as yesterday?”

He leaned against the counter, close enough that I caught the scent of rain on him — something between mint and pine. “You remembered.”

“Hard to forget a man who questions my cinnamon rolls’ integrity.”

That earned a soft laugh. “They’ve grown on me.”

“I’d hope so. They’re offended otherwise.”

The shop was quiet, save for the hum of the rain and the faint jazz from my playlist. The streets outside were half-empty — a rare, still morning. He took his usual seat by the window, camera on the table, eyes distant in that half-dreamy way of his.

I brought my own coffee and sat across from him. It didn’t feel like a decision — more like gravity.

He looked at me, not with surprise, but with that unreadable half-smile that always made me a little self-conscious.

“So,” he said, “tell me something you’ve never told anyone.”

I blinked. “What kind of question is that?”

“The kind that makes rain feel shorter,” he said, shrugging.

I thought for a moment, then said quietly, “I used to draw people who didn’t exist. Faces I’d never seen but somehow knew. I still do sometimes.”

He leaned in, resting his chin on his hand. “Maybe you’re just drawing souls before you meet them.”

My stomach fluttered, but I forced a small laugh. “That’s poetic.”

“I’m a writer,” he said. “It’s either that or bad metaphors.”

“And what about you?” I asked, matching his tone. “Something you’ve never told anyone?”

He paused. His gaze flicked to the window, then back to me. “I don’t like leaving places that feel real. I’ve lived in too many cities where nothing ever does.”

It hung there — heavy and soft.

Something about the way he said real made me feel seen. Like my tiny bakery, with its peeling paint and cinnamon-scented air, had just been given weight.

The rain outside deepened, tapping against the glass. I reached across the table to grab a napkin, and my fingers brushed his hand.
Neither of us moved.

It wasn’t dramatic — just stillness. Warm skin, cold air, the faint tremor of something unspoken.

He didn’t pull away. Instead, his thumb barely grazed mine, like a question he wasn’t sure he was allowed to ask.

“You’re cold,” I whispered.

He smiled faintly. “You’re not.”

We stayed like that for a heartbeat too long before I pulled back, pretending to fix my hair. My pulse, however, didn’t get the memo.

When he finally stood, the rain had eased, sunlight breaking shyly through the mist.

He adjusted his jacket and said softly, “Same time tomorrow?”

I smiled, pretending to think. “If you promise not to critique the rolls again.”

“Deal,” he said. “But only if you draw me one of those faces you dream about.”

As he walked out, I caught my reflection in the window — cheeks flushed, lips curved, eyes giving away everything I hadn’t said.

And I thought… maybe I already had drawn him, long before he ever walked in.