The bell above the café door gave its usual rusty jingle — that mildly annoying ting which meant another customer was about to make Kiara Mehta question her life choices.

“Welcome to Brew & Buns,” she said automatically without looking up from her phone. “Home of caffeine, croissants, and crushed souls.”

A deep voice replied, smooth as espresso, “Still the same warm service, I see.”

Her fingers froze mid-scroll. No. Not him. Not again.

Kiara looked up, and there he was — in his full Monday-morning glory.

Aryan Kapoor. Age: Too old for TikTok. Personality: Coffee with no sugar. Occupation: Something tech-y and probably soul-sucking. Current expression: Annoyed, unimpressed, and — unfortunately — stupidly attractive.

He placed his laptop bag on his usual corner table with the familiarity of someone who had paid rent for the spot. Same black shirt. Same wristwatch. Same grumpy aura.

“Let me guess,” she said, grabbing a cup without even asking. “Black coffee. No sugar. No smile. No personality?”

He gave her a look — half amusement, half warning. “You know me so well, it’s almost romantic.”

Kiara narrowed her eyes. “Please don’t flatter me this early in the day. It’s unhealthy.”

She turned toward the counter and muttered under her breath, “Seriously, why does this man keep coming back here? Isn’t grumpiness usually self-sustaining?”

Aryan, of course, heard it. “Because unfortunately, this is the only place in a five-kilometer radius that serves decent coffee and tolerates passive-aggressive baristas.”

She turned around, holding out his cup like a peace offering laced with caffeine. “Your poison, sir.”

He took it without a thank-you and walked back to his table, where he proceeded to open his laptop like he was about to hack into NASA or crush a startup’s dreams.

Kiara watched him for a second. He never smiled. Barely talked. Wore the same three shades of clothing: black, grey, or darker grey. And yet, somehow, he’d become a regular — the worst kind. The handsome, emotionally unavailable kind that made you curious against your better judgment.

Nope. Not happening. Not her circus. Not her age bracket.

---

Across the café, Aryan sipped his coffee and exhaled. Peace.

Well, almost.

He glanced toward the counter, where Kiara was now arguing with a college boy who had clearly asked for something weird like a "half-iced oat milk matcha with almond foam and good vibes." She was gesturing wildly, eyes rolling, and dramatically miming what sounded like, “Do I look like I’m made of organic oats?”

Aryan smirked.

God help him, she was exhausting… and entertaining.

---

Ten minutes later, Kiara plopped into the staff stool behind the counter, groaning.

“This job is slowly erasing my will to live.”

Nisha, her coworker, laughed as she wiped glasses. “Or maybe it’s just Aryan Kapoor’s face.”

Kiara peeked over at him again.

He was typing furiously, brow furrowed, jaw set. Everything about him screamed don’t talk to me unless you’re a spreadsheet. But there was something about that stillness — that quiet intensity — that bugged her.

And intrigued her.

“I just don’t get him,” Kiara muttered.

“You don’t need to get him. You just need to ignore him.”

“Easy for you to say. He likes to argue with me. Like it’s his cardio.”

Nisha smirked. “Maybe he likes you.”

Kiara snorted. “Yeah, and I like root canals.”

---

By the time her shift ended, Kiara was exhausted, caffeine-deprived, and mentally preparing to drag herself through psychology lectures.

As she stepped out from behind the counter, Aryan suddenly stood up at the same time.

They nearly bumped into each other.

“Careful,” he said, stepping back.

“Wow. A warning. From you. Are we bonding?” she teased, raising an eyebrow.

He looked down at her — that same unreadable expression.

Then, completely deadpan: “I’d rather bond with the espresso machine.”

Kiara burst into laughter, surprising them both.

Aryan’s lips twitched. Just slightly. Barely there.

“Enjoy your lectures,” he added, nodding toward her bag.

“Enjoy your black hole of emotions,” she shot back.

He tilted his head. “Every Monday. Like clockwork.”

And with that, he walked out — silent, composed, maddeningly mysterious.

---

That night, Kiara lay in bed scrolling through memes, trying to forget the stupid way her heart had skipped when he’d said “Enjoy your lectures.”

It was nothing. A line. Polite. Whatever.

Right?

Because he was not her type. At all.

Too serious. Too old. Too… whatever.

Still, her brain whispered:

Then why are you still thinking about him?

---