The familiar rhythm of the sweet shop never changed.

Before sunrise, Meera had already been standing over steaming pots of thickening milk, carefully stirring them into creamy peda while another pan bubbled with golden sugar syrup for fresh jalebis. The little shop was warm, almost uncomfortably so, carrying the comforting aroma of caramelized sugar, cardamom, ghee, and fresh milk.

Hours in front of the stoves had left a soft sheen of perspiration glistening across her forehead, cheeks, and neck. Tiny beads of sweat slipped down to her collarbones before disappearing beneath the loose blouse hidden under her neatly draped saree. She dabbed at her face with the edge of her pallu out of habit, though she knew another layer of perspiration would return within minutes.

She didn't mind.

The sweets had to be perfect.

Customers came and went all morning, collecting boxes for birthdays, festivals, and family gatherings. They praised her recipes, thanked her for the delicious sweets, then left. Few ever looked at the woman behind the counter.

At thirty-five, Meera had grown used to it.

She had stopped wondering what it would be like if someone looked at her the way they admired the sweets she made.

The tiny brass bell above the entrance chimed.

The shop door swung open.

Meera glanced up automatically.

For a brief, impossible moment, the world seemed to fall silent.

A young man stepped inside.

Perhaps twenty-one at most, tall, effortlessly handsome, with an easy confidence that somehow wasn't arrogant. Sunlight spilling through the doorway framed him for an instant before the door eased shut behind him.

The sight of him stole the breath from her lungs.

Her heartbeat lurched so suddenly that she almost dropped the ladle in her hand.

He's... beautiful...

Heat that had nothing to do with the kitchen rushed into her cheeks. She instinctively lowered her gaze, suddenly aware of everything she tried so hard to ignore—her mature body, the perspiration glistening on her skin after hours over the stove, the faint scent of warm sugar and sweat clinging to her clothes.

Someone like him...

Surely he would notice all the things everyone else did.

She hastily wiped her forehead again with her pallu, smoothed the front of her saree, and adjusted the fabric over her chest in a nervous attempt to make herself look just a little more presentable, even though she knew it would change nothing.

Still, she couldn't stop herself from stealing another timid glance at the young man standing inside her little sweet shop.