(Poorv’s POV)

The morning after she drew me, the world looked the same — but it didn’t feel the same.

I’d walked through the bazaar, through the same noise and color and chatter, but nothing held. Every sound dulled, every face blurred. The only thing sharp in my mind was her — that look when I touched her hair, the way her voice had softened when she said you shouldn’t look at me like that.

But I did. I couldn’t stop.

When I reached the bakery that afternoon, the bell over the door gave its small familiar chime. Mira was at the counter, head bent over a bowl of frosting, strands of hair escaping her bun. A streak of white ran across her wrist.

“You’re late today,” she said without looking up.

“Had to think of excuses to come back,” I said.

That made her glance up — amused, but not enough to hide how her pulse flickered in her throat.

The place was quiet; the rush had passed. The sky outside had gone that particular Shimla gold — sunlight spilling through mist, painting everything soft.

She handed me a cup of coffee without asking. It had become a ritual now, the kind of unspoken rhythm that built its own comfort.

I leaned against the counter, watching her pipe frosting onto cupcakes — deliberate, steady motions. “You always look calm when you do that,” I said.

She smiled faintly. “That’s because baking listens. People don’t, always.”

“Then I’ll try,” I said.

Her eyes lifted to mine — slow, steady. Something in that gaze made the air feel smaller.

She nodded toward the tables. “Sit. I’ll bring you something new I tried.”

When she joined me, she placed a plate between us — two small tarts, dusted with powdered sugar. “Hazelnut and espresso,” she said. “Be honest, even if it ruins my day.”

I took a bite, and before I could speak, she laughed. “You’re too dramatic. It’s just pastry.”

“It’s art,” I said, still chewing. “You underestimate what you do.”

She looked down at her lap. “You say things like that too easily.”

“Only when they’re true.”

Silence again — but this time, it wasn’t gentle. It pressed close. The late sunlight caught in her hair, turning it amber. Her fingers were resting near mine on the table, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating off her skin.

“You know,” I said quietly, “I didn’t plan to stay in Shimla this long.”

“Then why are you still here?” she asked.

I didn’t answer right away. The truth felt too big for the room.

Finally, I said, “Because some places start feeling like promises you don’t want to break.”

Her breath caught. She didn’t look away, and neither did I.

Something in her expression softened — that guarded calm she wore every morning cracked a little, and what peeked through was all feeling.

When she finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper. “You’re not fair, Poorv.”

“Why?”

“Because you make it hard to remember that you’ll leave.”

The words hit quietly, but they stayed — heavy and trembling.

I reached across the table then, fingers brushing against hers. She didn’t pull away. Our hands rested there, just touching, until it didn’t feel like hesitation anymore.

I could feel her pulse through her palm — quick, steady, real.

“You’re right,” I said softly. “I might leave. But right now, I’m here.”

For a moment, she just looked at me. The air thickened, the rain clouds outside shifting again, dimming the light. And then — like a decision neither of us made consciously — she leaned in.

The distance between us closed in slow motion. I could smell vanilla, sugar, rain on her skin. My hand slid up, resting against her cheek, and her eyes fluttered shut.

The kiss wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t even really a kiss — just the barest meeting of lips, soft and searching, more question than answer. A breath shared, a pause that felt infinite. 

When we pulled apart, she stayed close, forehead resting against mine. The world outside blurred; even the rain seemed to hold its breath.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” she murmured.

I smiled. “Then I’m glad you did.”

She laughed — small, breathless — and pushed my shoulder lightly. “You’re impossible.”

“Maybe,” I said, brushing my thumb along her wrist. “But you smiled.” I could hear my heart beat . My lips tingled for more of hers. I slowly leaned in looking at her questioning silently if this was okay.

She put her hands behind my neck, which felt like a spark. Our lips touched. Gentle. The kind of kiss that was less like fire and more like finding home after a long winter.

And that was enough.
For the first time in months, the ache in my chest wasn’t from running — it was from staying.