It had become a routine.
7:45 PM.
The bell chimed.
The corner table waited.
And Aiyana found herself—annoyingly—looking forward to it.
Dhairya Sehgal wasn’t loud, but his presence echoed. He wasn’t charming in the traditional way either. No pick-up lines. No flirty smiles. Just quiet eyes and the kind of stillness that made people sit up and wonder what storms he’d survived.
That evening, as he entered, Aiyana was already behind the counter, pretending she wasn’t waiting.
“Black coffee. Extra hot. No sugar?” she said before he could speak.
He raised an eyebrow. “You remembered.”
“I remember all emotionally unavailable men. It's a toxic talent,” she quipped.
That made him smile—barely. “And what do you do with that talent?”
“Turn them into loyal customers,” she said, handing him the cup. “Or fictional characters.”
He paused. “You write?”
“Sometimes. When my therapist takes a day off,” she replied, casually flicking a book off the counter and sliding it into place.
There was a beat of silence, then:
“I sketch,” he admitted, surprising them both.
Aiyana blinked. “Yeah? I mean, I guessed. You’re always scribbling like a tortured poet in that corner.”
Dhairya glanced at his usual table, then back at her. “Come sit. You can see for yourself.”
Now that was unexpected.
“Wait, what?” she said. “You’re inviting me into the sacred sketchbook zone?”
He didn’t answer—just walked to the table, sat down, and opened the notebook.
Curiosity got the better of sarcasm. She grabbed her apron, told her staff to manage the counter, and slid into the seat across from him.
Inside the sketchbook were faces—smiling, crying, lost in thought. Some felt too real. Too raw.
And then she saw one sketch…
Her.
Laughing. Hair tied in a messy bun. Probably on a day she was ranting about how almond milk ruins coffee.
“You sketched me?” she asked, half shocked, half flattered.
Dhairya didn’t look up. “You’re loud. You linger.”
Aiyana chuckled. “That’s your way of saying I’m memorable?”
He glanced up, meeting her eyes. “That’s my way of saying… I notice you.”
Her breath hitched for just a second.
Then she smirked, breaking the tension. “Careful, Mr. Broody. Compliments aren’t your usual vibe. You might accidentally flirt.”
He actually laughed—low, genuine.
And in that moment, something shifted.
The silence between them wasn’t awkward anymore. It was comfortable.
Like shared coffee on a rainy evening.
Like two people realizing maybe… just maybe… this was how a story begins.
To be continued....
