Rain had a way of making the city look honest. It washed the lies off glass, blurred the edges of tall buildings, and left reflections in puddles that looked more like truth than the real thing.
Mara Collins watched the rain streak down the café window and tried not to think about how her life had begun to feel the same way—smudged at the edges, uncertain, too easily wiped away.
She was late again. Not for anything important—just her own plan to get her act together. She'd promised herself a year ago that she'd start painting again, that she'd stop letting work swallow her whole, that she'd try. Instead, she was still here, hiding in the same corner of Brew & Bloom, clutching a lukewarm cappuccino and pretending she had time to spare.
The bell over the door jingled.
She didn't look up—until someone's voice cut through the low murmur of music and conversation.
"Sorry! Sorry—oh no, no, no—!"
She turned just in time to see it happen: a blur of motion, a splash of brown, and the unmistakable scent of roasted coffee hitting fabric. Her fabric.
Her favorite white blouse now looked like an abstract painting.
The culprit froze, eyes wide. He was tall, rain dripping from his hair, a guilty half-smile already tugging at his lips. "I—uh—am so sorry. That was... a terrible first impression."
Mara blinked, then exhaled a shaky laugh. "You think?"
"I swear I'm not normally this destructive," he said, grabbing napkins in a flustered panic. "I'm usually more of a mild inconvenience."
He handed her the soggy pile, and for the first time, their eyes met.
Something electric passed between them—like the crackle that comes just before lightning hits the ground.
She noticed the dimple that appeared when he smiled, the way his voice softened when he said her name—after she'd reluctantly told him.
Eli. His name was Eli.
By the time the barista offered them both replacement drinks "on the house," Mara's ruined blouse didn't seem to matter anymore.
Eli glanced out the rain-streaked window. "You know," he said, "I think fate just used coffee as an excuse."
She tilted her head. "An excuse for what?"
"For me to meet you," he said simply.
And for the first time in months, Mara laughed—not because she had to, but because something in her heart remembered how.