(Poorv’s POV)

The rain had stopped, but something in me hadn’t.

I spent the night in my rented flat above the antique shop, trying to write a travel piece about Shimla’s markets. The words refused to come. Every sentence curved back to her.

Mira, with her hair tied up messily and flour on her cheek, pouring coffee like it was an act of care. Mira, laughing when she shouldn’t, sketching on napkins when she thought no one was watching.

It wasn’t supposed to be this distracting. I’d come here for a quiet break — to breathe, to be invisible for a while. But she’d found me anyway, without even trying.

By the time I reached the bakery, the clouds had broken into streaks of sunlight. The smell hit first — butter, vanilla, cinnamon. The kind of warmth that makes you want to stay.

She was behind the counter, sketchbook open beside the register. She didn’t notice me come in — too busy shading something carefully. Her lips were pressed together, a tiny crease between her brows.

“Morning,” I said softly.

She looked up — startled, then smiling. “You’re early.”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

I nodded toward the book. “What’s that?”

“Nothing,” she said too quickly, trying to close it.

I grinned. “Now I definitely want to see.”

She sighed — mock annoyance, but I caught the faint blush creeping up her neck. Then she pushed the sketchbook toward me.

I didn’t expect it.
Didn’t expect me.

It was a portrait — soft pencil lines, light strokes that looked alive. My jawline, my eyes half-shaded, my smile not quite finished. Like she’d drawn me from memory, not from sight.

For a moment, I couldn’t speak.

“Before you say anything,” she said quickly, “I draw people I find… interesting. That’s all.”

“Interesting,” I repeated. “That’s generous.”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t make it weird.”

But her voice faltered on the last word, and that was it — the silence that followed wasn’t empty. It pulsed.

I reached out, brushing my fingers against the edge of the paper. “You made me look softer than I am.”

“Maybe you are softer than you think,” she said quietly.

Her tone had changed — no teasing now, just that low, certain warmth that slipped under my skin.

The air between us stretched, delicate and fragile. I could hear the faint hum of the coffee machine, the ticking of the old wall clock.

I don’t know why I did it — maybe because the light fell just right on her face, or maybe because the world outside suddenly felt too far away — but I reached up, gently tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

She froze, then looked up at me. Her eyes — warm brown, steady — didn’t move away.

“You shouldn’t do that,” she whispered.

“Do what?”

“Look at me like that.”

“How am I looking at you?”

“Like you’re not leaving,” she said softly.

I wanted to tell her I wasn’t sure I could. Not now. Not when everything about her — the scent of baked sugar, the curve of her wrist as she held the pencil — had already written itself into my quietest thoughts.

But I didn’t say it. Instead, I smiled — a small, helpless one.

“Then maybe I should stop pretending this is just about coffee,” I said.

She laughed, barely. “It’s never just coffee with you, is it?”

I shook my head. “Not when you’re the one making it.”

For a second, neither of us moved. Just the sunlight stretching across the counter, her hand resting close enough that I could feel the warmth of it.

And in that still, golden morning, I knew — this wasn’t the kind of story that stayed temporary.
Not anymore.