Chapter Seven: Something Real Begins

The next morning, the rain had stopped, leaving the earth damp and the air fresh. Birds returned to their morning chorus, and golden sunlight peeked through parting clouds. It felt like a quiet celebration—as if even the sky approved of what had happened the night before.

Aira stood on the porch with a steaming cup of coffee, arms wrapped around herself. Her lips still tingled from that kiss. That *real* kiss.

She closed her eyes, letting the moment replay in her mind. How gently he had touched her. How his voice had trembled when he asked her to try—no pretenses, no lies. Just *them*.

Her heart felt both light and heavy. Because now that it was real… it could break.

She heard the creak of the screen door behind her and turned to find Imran stepping out, holding his own mug, hair still tousled from sleep.

"Morning," he said softly.

"Morning," she replied, offering a small smile.

He walked over and stood beside her, their shoulders brushing.

"Did last night really happen?" he asked, glancing sideways.

"I think so."

"Good. I didn't dream it then."

They both chuckled quietly. The kind of laughter that came when two people were still figuring out how to hold something fragile but beautiful.

Aira glanced at him. "So… what now?"

Imran was quiet for a moment. "Now, we stop acting. We keep being honest. We let this be messy and terrifying and *real*."

She looked down into her cup. "And when we leave this town?"

"We'll still be us," he said without hesitation. "We'll figure it out."

She wanted to believe that. She *almost* did.

But a small voice in the back of her mind whispered: *What if you're wrong again?*

They spent the rest of the morning walking through the town. Aira took him to the old bookshop near the square—where the scent of paper and cinnamon tea hung thick in the air. The owner, Mr. Lambert, greeted her like an old friend and raised an eyebrow when she introduced Imran.

"About time you brought someone worthy in here," he said, giving Imran a nod.

Imran just grinned and took it as a compliment.

Later, they shared a cone of vanilla-and-honey ice cream from the café by the lake, sitting on a bench under the large maple tree that gave the town its name. The air was quiet, only disturbed by the occasional cyclist or jogger.

Aira licked her spoon slowly. "You know, if you'd told me two weeks ago that I'd be here with you, sharing ice cream and feelings, I would've laughed."

"I would've laughed too," Imran admitted. "Louder than you."

She smiled. "So what changed?"

"I did," he said. "Because of you."

His answer was so simple. So sincere.

And it made her heart ache.

As the sun began to dip behind the trees, casting golden light across the lake, Imran suddenly reached into his coat pocket.

"I got something for you," he said.

Her eyebrows lifted. "What? Why?"

"It's nothing big. Just… I saw it in the shop while you were talking to Mr. Lambert."

He pulled out a small, leather-bound notebook. Its cover was embossed with tiny pressed flowers and vines.

Aira opened it slowly. Inside the first page, in his handwriting, were the words: *For your stories, your daydreams, and every part of you the world doesn't see yet.*

Her throat tightened. "Imran…"

"You don't always say how you feel," he said, voice gentle. "So I thought… maybe this could help."

Aira stared at him.

No one had ever given her something so thoughtful. So quiet, and yet… so loud with meaning.

She blinked quickly to keep her eyes dry and smiled. "Thank you."

He nudged her playfully. "You're welcome, secret poet."

As they walked back home, hand in hand, Aira's heart felt fuller than it had in a long, long time.

But not everything was perfect.

That night, while Imran was in the shower, Aira's phone buzzed.

**Unknown Number**.

She frowned and picked it up.

> *Aira. I heard you're back in town. Can we talk? –E*

Her stomach dropped.

Elliot.

She stared at the message for a long time.

Then she did something she hadn't expected: she replied.

> *I don't think that's a good idea.*

The answer came quickly.

> *I just need five minutes. I think I deserve that much.*

Her chest tightened. She didn't *owe* him anything. Not after the way things ended.

But a small part of her—the part that never fully closed the chapter—knew that seeing him again might be the only way to move on completely.

She put her phone down just as Imran walked back into the room, towel slung over his shoulder.

"You okay?" he asked, noticing her expression.

She hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah. Just tired."

But she didn't mention the message.

Not yet.

Because she didn't want to ruin this peace.

This fragile, beautiful beginning.