Emily Whitmore was always in a hurry.
That November afternoon, she dashed down Silver Street, her coat half-open and a folder of papers threatening to spill with every step. The drizzle had started as a whisper but swelled into a thick curtain, blurring the pavements. She cursed under her breath. Her plan was simple: get home, shower, and finish tomorrows presentation. But the downpour left no choiceshe needed shelter.
She pushed open the door of a tiny bookshop-café, the kind that seemed plucked from another time, with worn wooden furniture and the scent of freshly ground coffee. Shaking the rain from her hair, she approached the counter.
“Black tea, please,” she said, barely glancing up.
“Not a coffee person?” A mans voice, amused and curious.
Emily looked up. Behind the counter stood a tall man in his thirties, dark brown hair, two days stubble, smiling as if hed known her forever.
“Not when I need to think,” she replied, slightly defensive. “Coffee makes me jittery.”
“Black tea it is. Though I should warn youmost lose the battle to coffee at this table,” he said, nodding at the nearly empty shop.
For the first time all day, she smiled. “And you are?”
“Oliver Hartley,” he answered, offering his hand across the counter. “Owner, barista, and hopeless book addict.”
Emily introduced herself, took her tea, and settled by the window. Rain lashed the glass as if begging to come inside. As she tried to focus on her notes, Oliver appeared with a book in hand.
“If you dont mind thought you might like this.”
An old novel, blue cover, gold lettering.
“How do you know what Id like?” she asked.
“I dont. But when someone runs in from the rain, orders tea, and wears that dont-talk-to-me face they usually need a good story more than anything.”
She accepted it, surprised. The sound of rain and the smell of coffee from other tables blended into something warm.
“Do you always work here?” she asked after a while.
“Only when it rains,” he said, enigmatic.
She laughed, thinking it a joke. It wasnt.
The days that followed returned the cityand Emilyto their usual frantic rhythm. But one Tuesday, another storm sent her back into the bookshop. Oliver was there, as if waiting.
“You again,” he said, pouring tea without being asked.
“You again with the rain,” she countered.
That day, they talked more. Emily learned Oliver had inherited the shop from his grandfather, once just a bookstore. Hed added the café to “give people excuses to stay.” Oliver, in turn, discovered Emily was an architect at a demanding firm where twelve-hour days were standard.
“Sounds exhausting,” he remarked.
“It is,” she admitted. “But I dont know how to do anything but run.”
Oliver looked at her with a calm that disarmed her.
“Sometimes you have to let life catch up,” he said.
Rain became their ally. Every time the first drops fell, Emily found a reason to walk down Silver Street. Sometimes she read in silence while Oliver served customers; other times, they talked about books, films, or travels neither had taken.
One December Thursday, Oliver made an offer:
“Were closing early Saturday. Some musicians are playing jazz here. Fancy coming?”
Emily hesitated. Spontaneous invitations werent her style. But she said yes.
That night, the shop glowed with candlelight, bookshelves casting long shadows. Oliver saved her a seat in the front row. During the concert, their knees brushedaccidentally, or not. After, he poured her a glass of wine and sat beside her.
“Ive seen you run in so many times to escape the rain,” he said. “But I think you were running from something else.”
Emily stayed quiet, stunned by how right he was.
“Maybe,” she admitted. “And maybe here, I forget what.”
Outside, the rain had returned. Oliver walked her to the door.
“I dont have an umbrella,” she said.
“Neither do I. But if we run, well reach the corner before were soaked.”
They didnt run. They crossed the street slowly, laughing as the water soaked their hair and clothes. At the corner, before parting, Oliver said,
“Dont wait for the rain to come back.”
Emily smiled. “Ill try.”
She didnt return the next day. Or the day after. But on Sunday, under a cloudless sky, she walked into the bookshop. Oliver feigned surprise.
“Wheres the rain?”
“Today I brought it with me.”
There was no tea that day. No coffee. Just a long, easy conversation, comfortable silences, and glances that spoke louder than words. As night fell, Oliver showed her a corner of the shop he never shared with customersa small room with a window overlooking the river.
“My grandfather read here when it rained,” he explained. “Said the sound of water reminded him everything keeps flowing.”
Emily pressed her forehead to the glass.
“Maybe thats what I like about this place it reminds me I can stop.”
Oliver stepped closer, so slowly she felt his breath before she saw him beside her.
“You can stop and stay.”
She turned her face to his. At that moment, rain began tapping the window, as if waiting for its cue.
“Seems the skys on our side,” he murmured.
“Seems so,” she whispered, before kissing him.
A soft, warm kiss that smelled of coffee and black tea. A kiss in no hurry at all.
From then on, every rain brought them back together. But it didnt matter if it stormed or shonethe bookshop on Silver Street became their place. In that corner by the river, between books and steaming cups, Emily Whitmore and Oliver Hartley learned that sometimes love doesnt come with the sun
but when the rain makes you stay a little longer.
