Adrit Desai
Chapter 1
The rain came down hard, blurring the neon chaos of Bandra’s streets into watercolor smears. Aaliya Mehra stood behind the counter of her quiet patisserie, La Madeleine, watching droplets slide down the glass like they carried stories. It was just past 9 p.m., and she was wiping down the last tray when the door creaked open. A man stepped in—tall, soaked, with a week’s worth of stubble and the disarming confidence of someone who never asked for permission. His leather jacket clung to him like second skin, water dripping from his fingers onto her freshly mopped floor. “You open?” he asked, voice low and amused, eyes flicking from the pastries to her face. Aaliya sighed, already annoyed. “Technically, no. But if you’re here to escape the flood, take a seat. No orders.” He didn’t sit. Instead, he moved to the glass display, tapping on the caramel tart with a burnt sugar glaze. “Looks bitter,” he said. “Looks misunderstood,” she shot back.
He smirked, pulled up a stool at the counter anyway, and reached for his wallet. “One misunderstood tart, then.” Against her better judgment, she plated it and slid it over. He took a bite, slow and deliberate, eyes closing for a beat longer than necessary. When he opened them, something in his gaze had changed. “That,” he murmured, “is the most complicated thing I’ve tasted in years.” She turned away, pretending to tidy a clean counter. “Complicated sells. So do sad men with rain-drenched charm,” she said, not looking at him. His laugh was low, gravelly. “You bake with fire in your fingers and talk like a blade. I like that.” She finally met his gaze—dark, intense, too knowing. The tension between them was suddenly molten. She leaned forward. “I didn’t ask if you liked it.” And just like that, something broke. He stood, crossed the space in two steps, and kissed her—fast, reckless, all teeth and heat. She didn’t pull away. Her fingers found his wet shirt, gripped it, dragged him deeper into the kiss. They stumbled back into the kitchen, past trays of éclairs and sponge cakes, into the warm, sugary shadows.
Their bodies collided like they’d been waiting lifetimes for this exact moment. Clothes clung, then peeled off, piece by soaked piece. Her back hit the marble countertop, cool and sticky with melted ganache. His hands were everywhere—spine, thigh, jaw—greedy, reverent. She gasped as his mouth found the base of her neck, biting just enough to blur the line between pain and pleasure. Her nails traced down his chest, feeling muscle tense and breath quicken. It was raw, unplanned, and messy. The rain hammered the rooftop like a drumbeat as they moved together, fast and frantic, not looking for meaning—just release. Later, when her breath steadied and his lips brushed her temple, Aaliya whispered the only truth she could handle: “This doesn’t mean anything.” He nodded, not offended, and zipped up slowly. “Sure,” he said. But his eyes lingered longer than they should have before he slipped out into the night.
Chapter 2
Two weeks passed before he messaged her—just a single line, no name: Still think that tart was misunderstood. You, too. Aaliya stared at the message for a long moment before deleting it, only to type back five minutes later: I close at 10. Don’t be early. And he wasn’t. At 10:03 p.m., Dev Malhotra walked in again, this time dry, smug, and just as annoying. She locked the door behind him without a word. There were no pleasantries. No small talk. He stepped forward, tilted her face up by the chin, and kissed her like he’d memorized the exact shape of her mouth. She responded with quiet hunger, fingers pulling at his collar, guiding him to the back. In the quiet hum of refrigerators and vanilla air, he unwrapped her slowly, like he was studying every layer she wore. His lips followed the lines of her collarbone, the soft underside of her breasts, the space just above her hips. She watched him, detached and trembling, because this wasn’t love—it was appetite.
He lay her on the narrow table, cold steel meeting flushed skin. Her thighs parted without resistance as he knelt between them, his tongue exploring her until she arched up with a shuddering gasp. He didn’t speak—only looked up at her, eyes molten, hand gripping her waist like he didn’t want her to disappear. When he rose, she flipped him onto the counter, climbed over him, and took control—grinding, teasing, devouring. His head fell back as she rode him, her nails dragging down his chest, marking him. They didn’t ask permission; they just moved in rhythm, like music they hadn’t heard but both knew by heart. Afterward, they lay tangled on the floor, still breathless. She reached for her bra. He reached for her hand. She pulled away. “We said no talking,” she reminded. He nodded, exhaling, propped on one elbow. “Just confirming the rules, Chef.” She smiled for the first time in hours, small and exhausted.
He left through the side door with his shirt half-buttoned and hair mussed like sin itself. She didn’t walk him out. Instead, she cleaned the countertop in silence, her heart annoyingly loud in her chest. When she found a piece of her lace underwear in his jacket pocket the next day—deliberately left, she was sure—she threw it in the trash. But that night, she didn’t lock the front door until after eleven. And when the rain came again, drumming against the shutters like memory, she poured herself a glass of wine, closed her eyes, and whispered to no one: It’s just sex. It’s nothing personal. And maybe if she said it enough times, she’d start believing it.
Chapter 3
The chef’s mixer event was the kind Aaliya usually avoided—too much ego, too much fake laughter served with canapés and curated playlists—but her pastry mentor had insisted, and she owed her that much. The rooftop bar in Andheri was slick and shallow, filled with white wine smiles and handshakes that meant nothing. She sipped ginger ale, already planning her exit, when she saw him—Rishi Sen. Her ex. The man who had belittled her ambitions, gaslit her into doubt, and slept with her sous chef the week before they were supposed to move in together. He walked up with the same charming smirk, still wearing arrogance like a cologne. “Didn’t expect to see you here, Aaliya. Still making your… burnt sugar things?” he said, voice lined with polite condescension. She didn’t flinch. “Still sleeping with people you mentor?” she replied, her smile a razor’s edge. But her hands trembled when she turned away. That’s when she saw him—Dev, across the room, leaning against the bar, watching.
Later, when she was outside alone, exhaling anger into the cool air, Dev appeared beside her without a word. He didn’t ask what happened. Just passed her a glass of something strong and said, “You okay, firecracker?” She didn’t answer. Just downed the drink, wiped her mouth, and looked at him like he was the only real thing in the city. “Take me home,” she whispered. He didn’t ask twice. His cab smelled like rain and tension. In her apartment, the silence was electric. She turned off the lights. He didn’t speak. She climbed into his lap, kissed him like he was the cure and the wound. They tore at each other like the world was ending. He lifted her against the wall, lips bruising hers, hands on her ass, grinding against her until she moaned into his neck. Clothes came off in impatient waves. Her breath hitched as he entered her slowly, fully, eyes locked on hers like he needed to see every flicker of emotion.
Their sex was different this time—desperate, almost violent in its release. Her fingers dug into his back like anchors. His mouth worshipped her like he was praying her pain away. When she came, it was with a sob she didn’t recognize as her own. He didn’t speak—just held her tighter, like silence was the only language that mattered. Afterward, tangled in sweaty sheets, she finally whispered, “He made me feel small. Like I was too much.” Dev pulled her closer. “You are too much,” he murmured into her hair. “And it’s fucking beautiful.” She didn’t reply. But when she fell asleep on his chest, breathing slow and deep, it was the first night in years she didn’t dream of drowning.
Chapter 4
The days that followed blurred into a rhythm neither of them dared name. Aaliya kept the patisserie open longer than usual. Dev stopped by after his late meetings or returning from photo assignments—sometimes with drenched shoulders, sometimes with a bottle of red. There was no label, no routine, only a magnetic pull that grew stronger with each glance. They made love with flour still dusting her fingers, chocolate melting between kisses, and soft sighs echoing through stainless steel walls. He once lifted her onto the prep table mid-sentence, licking ganache off her thumb before kissing her so thoroughly the oven timer was forgotten. “Your kitchen’s a dangerous place,” he murmured once, hands sliding up her thighs as she leaned back into his touch. She laughed, breathless, “So don’t come uninvited.” But he always did, and she always let him.
One night, he brought her an old camera and said, “I want to capture you when you’re not pretending to be tough.” She scowled. “I don’t pretend anything.” He just smiled and clicked the shutter as she sprinkled sugar over a tray of madeleines. Later, she reviewed the photos—sugar on her cheeks, eyes tired but warm, lips slightly parted like she was about to confess something. She didn’t say a word, just reached for him, pulling him onto the kitchen floor where cool tiles met bare skin. He made her feel like the most exquisite dish ever plated—tasted slowly, devoured thoroughly, remembered deeply. His kisses grew softer, his touch more reverent. That night, she whispered his name like a mantra, her walls crumbling under every gentle thrust and gasp of her name from his lips. It wasn’t just sex anymore—it was poetry etched in skin, in the way he cradled her face as she came undone.
But neither of them acknowledged it. In daylight, they returned to half-smiles and sarcastic jabs. She mocked his constant camera-toting; he teased her about being “too bossy” when baking. Still, the air between them pulsed with the weight of everything unsaid. One evening, as he buttoned his shirt and she refolded her apron, he paused at the door. “If you ever burn out,” he said, “you can fall apart with me. I won’t flinch.” She looked at him—really looked—and for a moment, the urge to say something real caught in her throat. But she just nodded, too afraid of the honesty in his eyes. When he left, she returned to her oven, her hands steady but her heart stammering like it had just learned a new language—and didn’t know how to speak it aloud.
Chapter 5
He called her on a Wednesday afternoon, his voice rough with sea wind and temptation. “I’ve got three nights in Goa. A villa with a hammock, a broken coffee machine, and a sky that knows how to seduce. Come.” Aaliya laughed at first, dismissing the madness of it—she had clients, inventory, deadlines. But by sunset, she was on a flight, no checked luggage, heart pounding harder than the turbulence. The villa was a secret tucked between palms and salt air. He was barefoot, shirtless, grinning as he opened the gate. “You really came,” he said like he couldn’t believe she did. She didn’t answer. Just dropped her bag and kissed him like the question was never in doubt. That night, under a blanket of stars and the scent of roasted coconut drifting from nearby shacks, they made love with the windows open and the ocean crashing like applause. Her laughter spilled freely, his moans buried in her hair. Every touch was slower now—curious, tender, like they weren’t just trying to feel each other but understand.
They spent the next two days tasting each other between swims and street food. She fed him feni-laced caramel with her fingers, and he dragged her onto the beach at midnight, skin against sand, breath against collarbone. Her body fit into his like they’d been designed by the same storm. On the second night, after they’d collapsed in bed post-laughter and lust, she lay against his chest, trailing fingers along the scar near his ribs. “Motorbike accident,” he said, then added, “My ex made me sell the bike. Said I was reckless.” Aaliya tilted her face toward his. “Were you in love with her?” He paused. “I thought I was. I wanted to be.” That was the first crack. She didn’t press further, just kissed the scar and whispered, “We’re all a little reckless.” And maybe that was the most honest thing she’d said in years.
But on the final morning, the mood shifted. Dev stood by the railing, phone to his ear, voice lower than usual. Aaliya heard snippets—“I didn’t expect your call”, “No, it’s not like that anymore”, “You’re remarried, remember?” The name “Anaya” drifted through the screen door like a ghost. She didn’t wait for more. She showered quickly, packed silently, and left a note scrawled on a café napkin: Thanks for the sky. Don’t chase me. When Dev came back into the room, towel slung over his shoulder, the villa was empty except for her perfume lingering on the sheets. He read the note three times before crumpling it with shaking hands. Outside, the tide rolled in, unapologetic and hungry. And somewhere between that morning and the silence she left behind, he realized she had taken more than just her clothes—she had taken the ease from his breathing.
Chapter 6
The days after Goa moved like molasses—slow, sticky, and heavy with silence. Aaliya didn’t text. She didn’t explain. She simply poured herself into the patisserie as if passion could replace absence. The clinking of metal trays, the hiss of boiling sugar, and the rich scent of dark chocolate were her only companions. When clients asked about her weekend, she smiled and said, “Got some sun.” But her hands trembled when she tried to perfect a salted caramel glaze. Burnt. Every time. She stopped playing music. Stopped waiting for his messages. But each evening, as she wiped the counters clean, she found herself glancing at the door longer than necessary. When she opened her laptop one evening, a headline caught her eye in The Wander Journal: “The Sweetest Thing in Mumbai—And It’s Not What You Think.” Her throat tightened. The article wasn’t about her directly, but it was about La Madeleine. About a pastry chef with fire in her hands and secrets in her eyes. About tarts that made you ache. She read it twice, then shut the laptop like it burned.
Dev, meanwhile, spiraled through cities without tasting any of them. Jaipur, Pune, Hyderabad—they blurred into hotel rooms and hollow smiles. He tried distractions—new assignments, late-night walks, cheap whiskey—but none of it softened the edges she left. The smell of cinnamon reminded him of her. The word “reckless” haunted him. He didn’t reach out. Not because he didn’t want to—but because he was afraid that maybe she meant it when she said don’t chase me. Still, the words he wrote—blogs, captions, stories—kept returning to her. One night, he scrolled through the photos he’d secretly taken in her kitchen. Her laughing mid-sneeze, licking a spoon absentmindedly, arms dusted in powdered sugar. She looked invincible and breakable at once. He slammed the laptop shut and cursed out loud. It wasn’t just lust anymore. And that terrified him.
Back in Mumbai, monsoon thunder cracked the sky like warning shots. Aaliya stood by the patisserie window, watching rain drench the streets she had once loved. She hated that she missed him. Hated that her body still reacted to memory—flesh tingling at the thought of his hands, her lips aching with the echo of his name. She baked all night, but every tart came out just slightly wrong. Like even her oven knew something was missing. In the quiet hour before dawn, she stood barefoot in her kitchen, holding a tray of imperfect burnt sugar tarts and whispering to herself, “Bitterness doesn’t mean broken. It means truth.” But as she took a bite, tears salted the crust. It wasn’t just about the tart. It was about him. About them. About everything they were too afraid to admit when it still mattered.
Chapter 7
It was the kind of storm that drowned traffic, soaked shoes in seconds, and made even Mumbaikars pause. Aaliya was trapped in her patisserie, ankle-deep in water that trickled in through the back drain. The lights flickered, the windows rattled, and her phone buzzed with warnings. But she didn’t leave. Couldn’t. The storm outside mirrored the one within. She was on her knees, moving sacks of flour to higher shelves, when she heard the knock. It was hard, urgent—twice. She stood, wiped her hands on her kurti, and opened the door expecting chaos. Instead, it was him. Dev, soaked to the bone, curls plastered to his forehead, shirt transparent against his skin, eyes fierce and familiar. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The rain roared between them like an accusation. Finally, he said, “You never chased me. So I came to you.” Her breath caught somewhere between a sob and a laugh, and she stepped aside.
Inside, he peeled off his jacket and shoes, dripping across the tiles. “The city’s a mess,” he said, almost casually. “You look worse,” she replied, though her voice cracked. He took a step closer, but she held up a hand. “You said you weren’t like the others. But you still kept your past like a loaded gun.” Dev exhaled, running a hand through wet hair. “I never lied to you. I just didn’t know if you wanted all of me.” She turned away, fighting the surge in her throat. “I didn’t come here to argue,” he said softly. “I came because… nothing tastes right without you.” She blinked, caught off guard by the words. Before she could reply, lightning flashed, the power died, and the patisserie plunged into darkness. In the silence that followed, only their breaths remained. Then he stepped forward, cupped her face, and kissed her—slowly, reverently, like he wasn’t sure he deserved it anymore.
They stumbled into the kitchen, guided by memory. She lit a candle, and its soft glow turned everything golden. He lifted her onto the counter, lips trailing down her throat, hands sliding under her soaked kurti. She wrapped her legs around him, anchoring him to this moment. Their bodies spoke the language their mouths never mastered. Clothes clung and peeled, breath hitched, desire bloomed again. When he entered her, she gasped his name, fingers buried in his back. Their rhythm was slow, deep, aching with apology and need. He whispered promises against her skin—not to fix her, not to keep her, but just to be here, now. And when they both fell apart, shivering in the candlelit kitchen, it wasn’t from pleasure alone—it was from the quiet, undeniable truth that no storm outside could compare to the one they had survived inside. They stayed there, wrapped in flour-scented air and each other’s arms, as the rain washed the city clean.
Chapter 8
The rain had softened by dawn, drizzling like a shy apology over Mumbai’s bruised skyline. In the patisserie kitchen, everything felt suspended in that post-storm hush. Aaliya woke up on the rug, tangled in a sheet they’d grabbed from the storeroom, her head on Dev’s chest. His heartbeat was steady beneath her ear, like a drum that had waited too long to play again. Light slanted in through the slats of the window, catching the white powder on the counter, the overturned stool, the wine bottle they never opened. She sat up slowly, brushing her curls out of her face, taking in the wreckage: wet clothes drying near the oven, her dupatta hanging from the fridge handle, and the unmistakable scent of cardamom and skin. Dev stirred, blinked at her, and smiled. “You always taste like vanilla at sunrise,” he murmured. She wanted to laugh, cry, slap him, kiss him—maybe all at once. Instead, she reached for his fingers and threaded them through hers. “So what happens now?”
Dev propped himself up, his expression shifting into something more serious. “That depends on whether we were just thunder sex or something more.” Aaliya rolled her eyes. “Only you would ruin a moment with that phrase.” He grinned, unbothered. “I’m serious, Aaliya. I didn’t come back just for the rain or the guilt. I came back because no other morning made sense without you waking up next to me.” Her heart slammed against her ribs, unprepared. “And I,” she said slowly, “never wanted to admit how much I baked just to remember how your presence felt.” They sat in silence for a moment, a soft calm between them. Then Aaliya stood, pulled his hand, and led him to the counter. “If we’re going to figure this out, we might as well start with breakfast.” Dev raised an eyebrow. “You’re cooking for me?” She smirked. “No, you’re chopping. I’m supervising.”
They moved around the kitchen like they’d never left. The familiarity returned not just in movement but in rhythm—her bossy flour-throwing, his terrible egg-cracking, the little glances that said more than words ever did. She made saffron French toast. He made coffee so strong it could cause chest palpitations. They ate on the floor, legs stretched, listening to Kishore Kumar on her old Bluetooth speaker. After the third toast bite, Dev said, “We could do this. Not just the sex or the drama. I mean the everyday. Groceries. Dishes. Fights over laundry.” Aaliya looked at him, eyes wide. “Dev, that’s not how romance novels end.” He shrugged. “Maybe that’s how real love begins.” She leaned in, kissed the corner of his mouth, then pulled away before she drowned in it again. “We try,” she said. “No promises, no sugarcoated endings. Just… burnt sugar. And maybe, on good days, vanilla.”
And so they did. The world outside hadn’t changed—traffic still honked, customers still grumbled, and Mumbai still raged with monsoons and miracles. But inside that little patisserie, in the quiet heartbeat of flour and coffee and rediscovered love, Aaliya and Dev began again. Not as saviors or stories—but as two people brave enough to bake something broken into something beautiful.
chapter 9
The night after their return from Goa, Ira found herself walking barefoot across her small apartment, the scent of sea salt still clinging to her skin and the sting of Ved’s absence already beginning to throb like an old wound reopening. He hadn’t stayed. He had kissed her on the forehead at the taxi drop-off, promised he’d call, and disappeared into the Mumbai traffic like a fever dream. She had expected something—anything—after what they had shared. But the silence grew longer, colder. She baked through the ache, letting her fingers knead dough as if sculpting back her pride. She ignored her phone, then obsessed over it. When she finally texted him, a single “Hey,” it stayed delivered but unread. For the first time in years, Ira felt small. Not because he left, but because she had let him in. And now, in the quiet buzz of her kitchen at midnight, she cursed herself for mistaking physical heat for emotional warmth.
Ved had not intended to ghost her. But the return to Mumbai was not kind. His phone had exploded with texts—his father hospitalized in Chennai, the board of directors questioning timelines, a delay in investment from Singapore. His world didn’t slow down, and in that chaos, his moments with Ira began to feel like indulgences he couldn’t afford. And yet, every time he scrolled through his gallery and saw her—laughing in that rain-drenched blue kurta or licking chocolate off her finger on the beach—he felt a hollow panic. She had touched a nerve he thought was long dead. The boy who once believed in love had surfaced again, and Ved didn’t know how to handle that man anymore. So he froze. Avoided. Disappeared. He told himself she would be fine. She had her café, her grit, her fierce independence. But Ved didn’t realize that sometimes, it’s the strongest ones who bleed quietly, behind kitchen counters and locked doors.
Ten days passed. On the eleventh morning, Ira walked into her café and saw a burnt sugar tart on the counter with a note: For the woman who knows how to set fire and survive it. I’m sorry. — V. Her breath caught, the room spun, and all her careful anger melted into something dangerously tender. She didn’t call him. She let him wait. That night, Ved stood outside her café after closing time, hands shoved deep into his pockets, soaked in monsoon drizzle. When Ira opened the door, she didn’t speak. She simply pulled him inside, past the counters and glass displays, into the dark quiet of her kitchen. No candles. No soft music. Just flour on her apron, fire in her eyes, and forgiveness, not in words, but in the way her lips found his again. It was not an ending, nor a beginning. It was the middle of a storm, and both of them finally chose to stand in the rain.
Chapter 10
Three months later, the city was drowning in another monsoon, and Ira’s café had become something of a shelter—for drenched lovers, lost tourists, and weary regulars who ordered her now-famous burnt sugar tart like it was a secret confession. Ved was there most evenings, quietly occupying the stool near the register, typing emails one minute and whisking batter with her the next. He had started calling it their place, though she hadn’t said it out loud yet. Love, Ira had learned, didn’t need declarations—it showed up in rinsed coffee mugs, in umbrellas held silently overhead, in shared playlists and stolen glances while folding napkins. Their relationship wasn’t perfect—some days they argued over deliveries, rent, or who left the freezer door open. But then they made up over midnight dosas, and every fight became just another ingredient in their growing recipe for something real.
That day, the café was quieter than usual. Ira had stayed back after close, stirring a pot of caramel, the scent thick and nostalgic. Ved came in holding a soaked envelope, his shirt clinging to him like a second skin. “You forgot to check the mailbox,” he said, handing it to her. She wiped her hands and opened it absentmindedly. Inside was a handwritten letter from the culinary institute in Paris—one she had applied to years ago and forgotten about. A delayed acceptance. A scholarship. A dream, folded neatly in an envelope from another version of herself. She stared at the words, her heart thumping like the rain outside. Ved read her expression before he read the letter. And in that moment, he smiled—but there was something behind it. Pride, yes. But also panic. “So,” he said softly, “Paris?” Ira nodded, the excitement tangled with guilt. “It’s just six months,” she said quickly. “I haven’t decided.” Ved kissed her temple. “You should go,” he whispered. “Dreams don’t wait, Ira. But I can.”
She left in September. Mumbai saw her off with thunder and a broken taxi meter. Ved didn’t come to the airport. Instead, he left a note folded in her passport: Come back with stories, not regrets. Paris was overwhelming and perfect—cobblestone streets, buttery croissants, and pastry lessons that tasted like poetry. But every time she caramelized sugar, she remembered that night in her kitchen—the rain, the apology, the silence. Ved sent her emails that read like short poems. She replied with photos of burnt tarts and wine-stained notebooks. They didn’t define what they were. They just stayed connected, like two ends of the same monsoon. When she returned in spring, the café was exactly the same—except for a new item on the menu. “Ira’s Tart – only served on days it rains.” She laughed when she saw it. And then cried, because sometimes, it takes leaving to realize where you truly belong. Ved appeared behind the counter, holding out a spoon. “Taste this,” he said. “It’s missing something.” Ira smiled, dipped the spoon, and replied, “It needs more burnt sugar.”
END
