Emily Whitmore was always in a hurry.
That drizzly November afternoon, she dashed down Silver Street, her coat flapping open, a folder of documents threatening to spill with every step. The rain had started as a whisper but quickly turned into a proper downpour, blurring the pavements. She muttered under her breath. Her planrush home, shower, and finish tomorrows presentationwas ruined. Shelter was her only option.
She pushed open the door of a cosy bookshop-café, the kind that looked frozen in time, with worn wooden furniture and the rich scent of freshly ground coffee. Shaking droplets from her hair, she approached the counter.
A black tea, please, she said, still not looking up.
Not a coffee person? asked a mans voice, amused and curious.
Emily glanced up. Behind the counter stood a tall bloke in his thirties, with messy dark brown hair and a two-day stubble, grinning at her like theyd known each other for years.
Not when I need to think, she replied, slightly defensive. Coffee makes me jittery.
Black tea it is, then. Though I should warn youmost people at this table lose the battle to coffee, he said, nodding at the nearly empty shop.
She smiled for the first time all day. And you are?
Oliver Hart, he answered, reaching a hand across the counter. Owner, barista, and hopeless bookworm.
Emily introduced herself, took her tea, and settled by the window. Rain lashed against the glass as if demanding entry. As she tried to focus on her notes, Oliver appeared with a book in hand.
If you dont mind thought you might like this. It was an old novel, blue cover with gold lettering.
How dyou know what Id like? she asked.
I dont. But when someone bursts in from the rain, orders tea, and has that dont-talk-to-me look usually, they need a good story more than anything.
She took it, surprised. The sound of rain and the hum of coffee chatter blended into something warm and comforting.
Do you always work here? she asked after a while.
Whenever it rains, he said, mysteriously.
She laughed, assuming it was a joke. It wasnt.
The following days brought clear skies, and Emily returned to her hectic routine. But on a Tuesday, another storm sent her ducking into the bookshop. Oliver was there, as if hed been waiting.
You again, he said, sliding her tea without being asked.
Rain again, she replied.
That day, they talked more. Emily learned Oliver had inherited the shop from his grandfatheronce just a bookshop, until he added the café to give people excuses to linger. Oliver, in turn, discovered Emily worked as 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 rush.
Oliver looked at her with a calm that unnerved her.
Sometimes youve got to let life catch up, he said.
After that, rain became their ally. Every time the first drops fell, Emily found a reason to walk down Silver Street. Sometimes she read quietly while Oliver served customers; other times, they chatted about books, films, or places neither had been.
One Thursday in December, Oliver made an offer:
Were closing early Saturday. Got some musicians playing jazz here. Fancy coming?
Emily hesitated. Spontaneous plans werent her thing. But she said yes.
That evening, the shop glowed with candlelight, shelves casting long shadows. Oliver saved her a seat in the front row. During the concert, their knees brushedaccidentally or not.
Afterwards, he poured her a glass of wine and sat beside her.
Ive seen you dash in here so many times, running from the rain, he said. But I think you were running from something else.
Emily stayed quiet, struck by how spot-on he was.
Maybe, she admitted. And maybe here, I forget what.
When they left, rain had returned. Oliver walked her to the door.
No umbrella, she said.
Me neither. But if we sprint, we might make it to the corner before were soaked.
They didnt sprint. They walked slowly, laughing as water soaked their hair and clothes. At the corner, before saying goodbye, Oliver said,
Dont wait for the rain to come back.
Emily smiled. Ill try.
She didnt return the next day. Or the one after. But on Sunday, under clear skies, 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, with comfortable silences and glances that spoke louder than words.
As evening fell, Oliver showed her a corner of the shop he never shared with customersa tiny room with a window overlooking the river.
My grandfather used to read here when it rained, he explained. Said the sound of water reminded him everything keeps moving.
Emily pressed her forehead to the glass.
Maybe thats what I love 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 head. At that moment, rain began tapping the window, as if it had been waiting for its cue.
Seems the skys on our side, he murmured.
Seems so, she replied, 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 rainfall 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 mugs, Emily Whitmore and Oliver Hart learned that sometimes love doesnt arrive with the sun
But when the rain makes you stay a little longer.
