It had rained all day in the sleepy little town of Kasauli. The kind of rain that blurred the hills and made everything smell like wet earth and pine needles.

Mira sat by the window of her little bookstore café, nursing a cup of ginger tea. Business was slow during the rains, but she didn’t mind. She liked the silence—the kind that held stories waiting to be told.

That’s when he walked in.

Dripping, flustered, and beautiful in the way storms are—unexpected, wild, and impossible to ignore. He wore glasses that fogged instantly as he stepped inside, and he laughed softly at himself as he wiped them.

“Tea?” she offered.

“Only if it comes with conversation.”