It all started with rain.

Not the kind that gently fades. This was stubborn, soaking rain—the kind that found its way under your clothes, down your neck, into your shoes. I was already halfway to the café when it hit. No umbrella. Just me, my kurti plastered to my skin, and a prayer that no one would be inside this early.

The bell above the door jingled as I slipped in, dripping and cursing under my breath.

Empty.

I exhaled and rushed behind the counter, locking the front door for just a minute. My clothes clung to me in the worst way—transparent in places, sticking in others. I grabbed the clean tee and leggings I kept in the back room and peeled the wet fabric off my body quickly, teeth chattering from the cold. The air felt too sharp against my bare skin. I could still hear the rain pounding on the roof. I moved fast—tugging the dry tee over my head, still barefoot, my hair a wet mess.

That’s when I heard the bell.

My heart dropped.

He was already standing there when I stepped out.

Tall. Soaking wet. His army jacket stuck to his broad shoulders, boots leaving muddy prints on the floor. And he was smiling. Not a smirk—something real. Open. Like the rain didn’t bother him at all.

I stood frozen for half a second, suddenly aware of my damp hair, flushed cheeks, and the way my shirt clung just a little too much.

“I’m sorry,” he said, hands half-raised. “Door was unlocked. I knocked—then the bell did the job.”

I nodded, trying to play it cool. “It’s fine. We’re open. Kind of.”

He stepped closer to the counter, water dripping from his sleeves. “Coffee?”

“Yeah. Sure. Black?”

“You read minds,” he said, and flashed a grin.

I turned away before I could smile back. My pulse was faster than it should’ve been. It wasn’t just because he was handsome. It was something else. The way he stood, easy in his skin. Like he didn’t carry weight even though he clearly had stories etched into him.

I handed him the mug, and our fingers brushed.

Warm.

Real.

He took a sip and let out a soft, pleased sound. “This is heaven.”

“You’ve had one sip.”

“I’m a fast judge of character.”

I raised a brow. “Of coffee or people?”

He gave me a playful look. “Both.”

He sat by the window, dripping quietly, as if the world outside didn’t touch him at all. I watched him from the corner of my eye, trying not to make it obvious. But once or twice, I think he noticed.

That night, I lay in bed, still thinking about that look in his eyes. Lighthearted, like sunshine under storm clouds. And that smile.

I wasn’t falling.But I was remembering.

And it all started with rain.