Aliya's day had started in a frenzied rush, her sneakers scuffing against the pavement as she bolted from the library to her shift at the Russet Cap Coffee café. Her breath formed small clouds in the brisk Vermont air, her thoughts scattered between the assignment deadlines and the pages of notes she'd just crammed into her backpack. As she pushed open the café's  wooden door, the warm glow from within and the rich aroma of roasted coffee beans offered a comforting embrace.

The café was a quaint haven, the walls were a pristine white, adorned with large, monochrome photographs of coffee beans and barista hands artistically captured in black and white. Streamlined, silver espresso machines gleamed under strategically placed track lighting, and the air was fragrant with freshly ground coffee. The furniture was uniformly black and angular, offering a stark contrast to the soft, warm throws placed over the backs of chairs for the comfort of the patrons. The aesthetic was polished and professional, much like the image Aliya was expected to project every day.

She glanced around, the emptiness echoing her sudden burden of handling the morning rush alone. Her expression, a mask of composed annoyance, mirrored the café's immaculate surfaces — cool, hard, and reflective. The manager's note lay crumpled slightly from her tight grip, the words hastily scribbled:

"Aliya, both Faraz and Thema are out sick today. I'm counting on you to manage the morning. —Marie"

"Perfect timing," she scoffed, smoothing the note out on the counter as if ironing the wrinkles could simplify her predicament. She twisted a strand of her hair, tying it back with a precision that matched the café's orderly vibe.

As the morning unfolded, the café swelled with its regular crowd. Mr. Jensen, who owned the bookstore next door, was the first to walk in. His presence was a comforting constant in Aliya's chaotic morning.

"Morning, Aliya! Bit of a one-woman show today?" he observed, eyeing her bustling about.

Aliya smiled wearily as she handed him his usual—a strong black coffee with no sugar. "You could say that. It's just me today. Faraz and Thema are out sick."

"Ah, that's rough. You've got everything under control here?" Mr. Jensen asked, concern flickering behind his spectacles.

"Trying my best," Aliya replied, managing a brief chuckle. Aliya found a rhythm as she moved from table to table, taking orders and serving up the café's signature blends. Each interaction was brief but warm, typical of the small community feel of the café.

But Thursdays brought a different tempo to the Café. As lunchtime faded into afternoon, the crowd thinned, and the atmosphere shifted. The bustle subsided into a quieter, more reflective mood. This was when Dylan appeared. Every Thursday, without fail, he'd push open the café door at precisely 1:30 PM, his arrival marked by a gentle jingle of the bell above the door.

Aliya, wiping down a recently deserted table, caught the familiar sound and instinctively paused. Her eyes followed Dylan's deliberate strides to his usual refuge by the window. There was an unspoken claim to that spot, underscored by the golden maple leaves fluttering against the glass like quiet spectators to his routine.

He unfurled his presence with a ritualistic precision: the laptop snapped open with a click, papers fanned out in an orderly arc, and headphones laid down like an old friend. His order was an echo of his steadfast nature—a large black coffee, unadorned, and a classic chocolate pistachio croissant.

As Dylan settled, Aliya's gaze lingered on the steam rising from his coffee, forming fleeting ghosts above the cup. Her fingers tightened around the damp cloth in her hand, the texture a harsh contrast to the softness of her memories. She thought of her last call with her mother back in India.

"Why would you sell my gold, Aliya?" her mother's voice had cracked over the line, heavy with a mix of disbelief and sorrow. "That was for your wedding, for your future."

"It was the only way, Ma," Aliya replied, her voice barely above a whisper. "The tuition fees were due, and I didn't have enough. I needed that chance."

Aliya shook her head, attempting to shake off the lingering memory of the conversation. If her parents ever found out she was working in a café, scrubbing dishes and serving coffee after she had turned down a marriage proposal from Jayesh uncle's affluent son, they would be more than just devastated. In their eyes, her actions were not mere choices but loud, clanging gongs of rebellion, each one resonating with defiance against the future they had meticulously planned for her.

The café's hushed ambiance was occasionally punctuated by the soft tap-tap of Dylan's fingers on his laptop keyboard. This rhythmic tapping acted like an anchor, drawing Aliya back to the reassuring reality of the present. She inhaled deeply, the sharp, earthy aroma of coffee grounding her as she approached Dylan's table. Her face was an expertly crafted mask of neutrality as she placed his usual order of coffee and a warm, classic chocolate pistachio croissant in front of him.

Dylan glanced up, his eyes crinkling with the beginning of a smile. "Thanks, Ali—" he started, but his gratitude was cut short by a sharp ding from the service bell. Another customer, a regular with impatient gestures, was signaling frantically for her attention.

By 4 PM, the café had settled into a quieter rhythm, the earlier rush dwindling to a few scattered patrons: a man buried in a book in the far corner, his brow furrowed in concentration; a woman whose fingers danced over her laptop keyboard like a pianist during a solo performance; and Dylan, who seemed to weave himself into the fabric of his own literary universe.

As the clock's hands edged closer to the café's 8 PM closing time, a subtle anxiety knitted itself between Aliya's eyebrows. She wiped down a table, the cloth swirling in small, precise circles—a dance of avoidance around the inevitable. Approaching Dylan felt strangely awkward; despite his being a regular, their interactions had always been brief.

"Excuse me," she began, her voice hesitant as she stood by his table. Dylan looked up, his expression shifting from concentration to mild surprise. "I'm sorry to disturb you, but we'll be closing soon."

Dylan blinked, his gaze moving from the glowing screen of his laptop to meet hers. "Oh, right. Sorry, I lost track of time," he murmured, his voice soft and contemplative as he began to pack his belongings.

"It's no trouble at all," Aliya responded, her initial awkwardness fading. "Your project must be quite captivating."

Dylan chuckled, zipping up his bag. " I'm deep into my first novel. It's all about family secrets, a dash of revenge—kind of sucks you in, you know?" he confessed, offering her a sheepish grin.

"That sounds thrilling," Aliya said, genuinely intrigued. "Good luck with it, and take care."

"Thanks, see you next time," Dylan said as he headed out. Aliya watched him leave, then turned to lock the door and flipped the 'closed' sign with a soft click. Stepping out, she immediately felt the chilly evening air replace the warm coziness she'd left behind. The streets of Burlington were quiet, and a light drizzle began to fall, making small sounds as it hit the ground.

She pulled her jacket tighter around herself, dreading the walk back to her dorm alone in the dark and rain. Just then, she heard the sound of a car engine, and a 2012 Honda Accord pulled up beside her, its headlights cutting through the misty evening.

The window rolled down smoothly, and Dylan's friendly face appeared from the driver's seat. "Need a lift?" he asked, his voice clear over the rain.

Aliya hesitated, then replied, "Thank you, but I don't even know your name."

"Dylan Archer," he responded with a warm smile. "And you're Aliya, right? Am I saying it correctly?"

"Yes, Aliya Deb," she added her last name and stepped closer to the car to stay dry. "Do you live near the university?"

"Right up North Underhill," Dylan said, his eyes friendly and welcoming under the glow of the streetlamp. It was like his eyes were deep pools of melting chocolate, drawing her in despite the dreary evening.

Encouraged by his response, Aliya pulled open the passenger door, greeted by a wave of fresh, clean scent that seemed at odds with the car's age. She sank into the seat, pleasantly surprised by its soft, welcoming embrace. The 2012 Honda Accord was far more comfortable than she'd anticipated.

As Dylan twisted the key in the ignition, the car came alive, the soft strains of Sam Smith's "Stay With Me" filtering through the speakers. The music swirled around the interior, wrapping Aliya in a warm blanket of melody. She relaxed into the comfort of her seat, the plush leather cool against her skin, and let out a contented sigh.

Just as she began to hum along to the familiar tune, Dylan reached out and lowered the volume, his fingers grazing the dial with a gentle precision. Aliya turned towards him, her brows lifting in a silent question, her eyes wide with a mix of surprise and mild disappointment.

"Why?" she asked, the corners of her mouth drooping slightly. "I love that song."

Dylan offered her a tender smile, his eyes crinkling at the edges as he held her gaze a moment too long. "I know," he replied softly, his voice barely above a whisper as if the words were meant only for her ears. "But you were humming along, and you've got a beautiful voice."

Outside, the rain began to fall harder, its rhythmic pattering against the car's roof creating a cozy, secluded world just for them. Aliya's cheeks warmed, a flush spreading across her face as a shy smile tugged at her lips. She bit her lip unconsciously, her hands clasping together in her lap.

"Ever thought of giving American Idol a run for its money?" Dylan teased, breaking the silence with his lighthearted banter. His eyes sparkled with mischief, a playful glint that made Aliya's heart flutter.

Aliya let out a soft laugh, the sound mingling with the muffled music still playing in the background. "Oh, please," she replied, her voice playful yet tinged with embarrassment. She rolled her eyes, a gesture filled with feigned exasperation. "I think I'll leave the singing to the shower and car rides, thank you very much."

"I'm serious," Dylan insisted, turning his attention back to the rain-slicked road. His tone shifted from teasing to earnest, a subtle change that added weight to his words.

Aliya's heart raced a bit faster, caught off guard by his sincerity. She shifted in her seat, turning to face him more directly, the leather creaking slightly under her movement. "And when are you publishing your book, then?" she countered with a playful challenge, her eyes twinkling with curiosity. "I'll need an autograph when you're Stephen King-kind of famous."

Dylan's laughter filled the car, a warm, rich sound that seemed to push away the dreariness of the rainy evening. "Oh, I don't write horror," he replied, his eyes briefly meeting hers in a shared moment of amusement before focusing back on the road. " Think less Stephen King, more John Green. It's the emotional rollercoasters that get me writing."

Aliya smiled, her earlier nervousness fading into a comfortable warmth. She watched him as he drove, noticing the way his hands confidently handled the steering wheel, the faint lines of concentration etching his brow as he navigated through the storm.

She nodded, her fingers hesitating on the handle of the door, not quite ready to break the connection. With a graceful movement, she opened the door, the cool night air swirling around her as she stepped out. The sound of her door closing seemed to echo slightly, marking a delicate end to their shared moments.

After another five minutes of driving through the slick, glistening streets, Aliya pointed to a turn. "Yes, turn left here." Her voice was soft but clear.

Dylan's foot pressed against the brake, which shuddered with a sudden jerk. He nearly missed the turn, his car's tires hissing on the wet pavement as they took the narrow road leading to Aliya's dorm. The quaint street was lined with tall, swaying trees, their leaves rustling softly in the breeze, casting eerie shadows that danced across the brick buildings. Each structure stood silent, windows dark, as if the world was holding its breath.

As the car rolled to a stop under the awning of her dorm, there was an unspoken acknowledgment between them. Even in the brevity of their journey, a mutual appreciation had woven itself silently through their conversation, lingering like the subtle fragrance of rain on dry earth.

Aliya opened the door and stepped out into the night. She moved quickly, her steps almost a jog, as she tried to dodge the droplets still lazily descending from the ink-black sky. Her long coat flapped around her, catching the wind and her hair, loose and flowing, sparkled under the street lamps, capturing droplets that glistened like tiny stars caught in her dark curls.

Halfway to the dorm, Dylan's voice sliced through the drizzle, playful yet hopeful. "Aliya?"

She turned, her movement graceful, a curious smile curving her lips. The soft light caught her face, highlighting her high cheekbones and the raindrops that adorned her like a delicate veil.

"If you ever need another ride in a Honda for your American Idol audition, or any other Thursdays to avoid walking, rain, darkness, etc.," Dylan's voice was light, teasing, yet there was a sincerity beneath his words that warmed the cool air, "you know who to ask."

Her laugh rang out, clear and melodious, echoing slightly against the quiet buildings. "I'll remember that, Dylan. Good night!"

"Good night, Aliya!" Dylan called out softly, but loud enough for her to hear. He watched as she walked up the steps to her dorm, moving gracefully. The door closed gently behind her, cutting off the warm light from inside.

Dylan sat in his car, letting the engine run quietly. The streets of Vermont around him were silent and wet from recent rain, glowing under the streetlights. The peaceful scene made him feel both comforted and a bit sad.

He kept his hands on the steering wheel for a while, not ready to leave. Finally, he drove away from the curb, his headlights cutting through the dark night. As he drove through the curving streets back to North Underhill, he couldn't stop thinking about Aliya.

He smiled to himself, remembering her smile and how it seemed to hide deeper secrets. He had seen her every Thursday at the café, and each time he noticed something new about her. Her eyes sparkled when she laughed, her hair fell perfectly around her shoulders, and her dimples showed when she smiled. He loved the small things about her, like how she shrugged when something amused her and how easily she talked with her customers.

Dylan was usually shy, preferring to write stories than talk to people. But tonight, he couldn't just watch her wait for the bus and walk home in the rain. He felt a strong urge to help her, to spend some time with her.

Aliya was confident and bold, and Dylan could tell she was from somewhere far away, maybe India or Pakistan, because of her accent and the way she acted. Dylan himself had never left Vermont in his twenty years.

As he drove, he listened to "Stay with Me" by Sam Smith. He thought about how Aliya had hummed to it earlier, her voice clear and lovely, making the car feel alive. Now, hearing the song made him remember everything about her—how her voice sounded, the twinkle in her eyes, and how she swayed to the music like she was part of it. He remembered how she blushed deeply when he complimented her. The streets of Vermont passed by his window, each one reminding him of the time they spent together earlier. The café with its cozy candles and the smell of coffee, the bookstore where they talked about their favorite books near the window...

As Dylan turned onto his street, his car's engine grew quieter, blending into the silent night. He turned off the engine and sat for a moment, his hands resting on the steering wheel, looking at the small outline of his childhood home in the darkness. This modest three-room house was all he had left of his parents, his only real connection to them.

The gravel crunched under his worn boots as he trudged up the path, his breath visible in the chill. Each step seemed to echo against the walls of memories housed within those faded walls. His father had passed away right here when Dylan was only sixteen, a sudden heart attack that had left the family foundation cracked. His mother, enveloped by grief, had slipped into a debilitating depression, becoming a ghost of the vibrant woman she once was, her laughter which used to fill up the rooms, silenced. Six months ago, she too had passed away, her body succumbing to a liver disease, leaving Dylan utterly alone.

Inheriting the house was a small blessing amidst the turbulence. As he unlocked the door, the familiar squeak of the hinges welcomed him like an old friend. He stepped inside, turned on the lights, and the room filled with a warm yellow glow that chased away the shadows. His eyes quickly scanned the room—every surface, every piece of furniture spoke of his parents' lives.

Dylan shut the door with a soft thud and leaned back against it for a moment, closing his eyes. The stillness of the house wrapped around him, heavy and comforting. Yet, as he stood there in the quiet, a smile slowly spread across his face. Aliya's face flashed before his eyes—a stark contrast to the solitude surrounding him. Her bright smile, the way her eyes lit. Dylan moved to the old, cushioned chair by the window, the fabric worn from years of use. He sank into it, the springs creaking under his weight.

AN:// Hey everyone!

Thank you for giving this fic a chance.
When I started writing it (and for everyone who worries, I already finished it so the updates will be regular) I had a really hard time at first. I knew I wanted to write that story, but I was afraid it would turn out boring. Thankfully, it turned out well in my opinion