The rain was pouring down in London, turning the streets into a blurry gray painting. Leo sat by the window of a small, dimly lit café, his sketchbook open. He wasn't drawing the rain; he was drawing the girl sitting three tables away.
Her name was Maya. She was a regular, always lost in a thick novel, her glasses sliding slightly down her nose. Leo had captured her smile, her focused frown, and the way she tucked her hair behind her ear—but he had never said a single word to her.
Suddenly, the café door swung open with a gust of wind, knocking a stack of napkins off Maya's table. As she leaned down to grab them, her book fell too. Leo jumped up instinctively.
"I've got it," he said, reaching the floor at the same time she did. Their hands brushed for a second, and it felt like a tiny spark of electricity.