A Rainy Bookstore Café
Anton Saño hated the rain.
It wasn't the inconvenience of wet shoes or the sticky air that bothered him—it was the way rain reminded him of moments he'd rather forget. Storms carried memories he'd buried in the back of his mind: arguments that ended in slammed doors, people leaving with umbrellas that weren't his, promises drowned by thunder.
Still, tonight, he found himself standing under the yellow glow of the small bookstore café sign, listening to the downpour hammer the pavement. He adjusted his glasses, checked his wristwatch, and sighed. The traffic outside was hopeless. He had time to kill.
Inside, the café was warm and smelled of old paper and roasted beans. It was the kind of place students haunted for Wi-Fi and professionals for silence. Anton liked it for the order: books stacked neatly on one side, rows of chairs lined against the wall, the low hum of conversations never rising beyond polite tones.
He ordered a black coffee, no sugar, no cream—because sweetness always complicated things—and sat by the window with a book he didn't intend to finish. He liked to read beginnings, not endings. Endings always hurt.
The bell above the door chimed.
Anton glanced up, out of habit more than curiosity. And then, there she was.
A woman rushed in, hair damp and clinging to her cheeks, her dress sticking to her in all the places the rain had touched. She was laughing softly, as though the storm outside was an old friend, not an enemy. She dropped her umbrella at the door, shook it twice, and looked around.
There were no empty tables. Except his.
Anton stiffened when her eyes met his. They were warm, the kind of brown that caught you off guard. She gave him a small, apologetic smile, gesturing toward the chair opposite his.
"Is this seat taken?" she asked.
Her voice carried a brightness he wasn't used to hearing on stormy nights.
Anton hesitated. He preferred silence. But rejecting her meant watching her hover awkwardly, and something about her presence—carefree, a little chaotic—stirred an unfamiliar curiosity in him.
"No," he said finally, closing his book halfway. "Go ahead."
She slid into the chair, sighing as if she had run a marathon instead of a few steps from the rain.
"Thanks. You don't know how grateful I am. I hate standing around looking pitiful." She chuckled, tucking a strand of wet hair behind her ear. "Rain makes everything messy. Don't you think?"
Anton gave a half-shrug. "Depends on who you ask."
"And you?" she leaned forward, studying him with shameless interest.
"I think it complicates things," he said, deadpan.
She tilted her head, amused. "You look like someone who doesn't like complications."
"That's true," Anton admitted.
She smiled at that, like she had just discovered a puzzle worth solving.
"Krystel," she said, offering her hand across the table.
Anton looked at it for a moment before shaking it briefly. Her grip was surprisingly firm.
"Anton."
And just like that, the rain outside seemed to fade into the background.
Coffee and Confessions
The waitress came by, and Krystel ordered a caramel macchiato with extra whipped cream. Anton raised an eyebrow at the order, which made her grin.
"What?" she teased. "You're judging me."
"I'm not."
"You are," she said, eyes sparkling. "Black coffee, no sugar, no cream. That's you, right? The type who likes things simple. Straightforward. Controlled."
Anton adjusted his glasses again, realizing she had read him too easily. "And you're... the opposite."
"Exactly," Krystel said proudly. "Life's too short for bitter coffee."
Her laughter was unguarded, echoing softly in the café. Anton found himself watching her longer than he intended. Something about the way she carried herself—the looseness in her shoulders, the easy way she spoke—was magnetic.
They talked. At first, about trivial things: books they pretended to have read, the unpredictable weather, the café's overpriced cakes. But slowly, their conversation drifted deeper, as though both of them had been waiting for someone willing to listen.
"I used to think routine was safe," Krystel said, stirring her drink absentmindedly. "But lately, it feels like I'm just... existing. Like every day is the same copy of the last one. Do you ever feel that?"
Anton stared at his untouched coffee. "More often than I'd like to admit."
She leaned back, her eyes searching his face. "You don't strike me as the type who admits things easily."
"I don't."
"So why now?"
He looked at her then, really looked. Maybe it was the storm, or the warmth of the café, or the way her voice seemed to carry an honesty he hadn't heard in years. Whatever it was, Anton found himself saying, "Because you asked."
Her lips parted slightly, as though she wasn't expecting that answer. Then she smiled again, softer this time.
"Maybe you're not as complicated as you think."
The Reckless Idea
It was Krystel who shifted the conversation from loneliness to possibility.
"You know what I think?" she said suddenly, tapping her spoon against her mug. "People waste too much time being careful. Afraid of what-ifs. Afraid of endings. Afraid of feeling too much."
Anton arched a brow. "And you're not?"
"Oh, I'm terrified," she admitted, laughing again. "But I think... maybe fear is just proof that something matters."
Anton considered that, unsure if he agreed.
Then Krystel leaned forward, her eyes gleaming with mischief. "What if," she said, drawing out the words, "we did something reckless?"
Anton tensed. "Define reckless."
"Seven days," she said. "Just seven. We live as if we've been lovers for years. No awkward beginnings, no small talk, no safe distance. We jump straight to the middle—where love is already there. And when the week is over, we walk away. No strings attached. No questions asked."
Anton blinked. He thought she was joking. But the way she was staring at him—serious, hopeful, daring—told him she wasn't.
"That's absurd," he said flatly.
"Maybe. But absurd is what makes life interesting."
"Why me?" he asked.
Krystel shrugged. "Because you said you don't like complications. And I think you need one."
For a long moment, the only sound between them was the rain hitting the windows. Anton's logical side screamed no. But another part of him—the part that was tired of safe choices, tired of empty nights—was tempted.
He should have walked away. He should have laughed it off.
Instead, Anton found himself asking quietly, "And after seven days?"
Krystel's smile faltered just a little. "After seven days... we go back to being strangers."
Anton's Hesitation
Anton let her words hang in the air. They tasted dangerous, like the first sip of something strong—something you weren't sure you could handle but craved anyway.
"Strangers," he repeated under his breath, almost testing the word.
Krystel's eyes held steady. "Yes. Strangers. That's the rule."
It made no sense. Anton had spent years avoiding complications, and here she was offering one on a silver platter. Pretend intimacy, temporary attachment, an ending already scripted before the beginning. Everything in him resisted the idea.
And yet—he couldn't look away.
The rain outside blurred the world into silver streaks. Inside, the café hummed with quiet chatter, the clink of porcelain cups. Ordinary life continued for everyone else, while Anton's own life dangled precariously at the edge of something he didn't understand.
"You expect me to believe," Anton said slowly, "that you want to spend a week pretending to love someone you just met. And then walk away without looking back?"
Krystel leaned her chin on her hand. "Not pretending. Living. There's a difference."
"Living," he echoed, skeptical.
She grinned. "You'll see."
Anton pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose, exhaling sharply. "This is insane."
"Yes," Krystel said cheerfully. "But so is waiting your whole life for the perfect timing that never comes."
He studied her then. Her damp hair was beginning to curl as it dried, strands sticking out in small rebellions. Her laughter still lingered in the air, but beneath it, Anton sensed something else—a flicker of urgency, a shadow of something she wasn't saying.
"What's in this for you?" he asked quietly.
Her smile softened, just slightly. "A week to forget myself. Isn't that enough?"
He didn't answer.
The War Within
Anton had always been cautious. He planned his days down to the hour, never gambled on what he couldn't control, never surrendered to whims. To him, emotions were unpredictable storms. They ruined schedules. They blurred decisions.
But now, sitting across from a woman who treated chaos like an old friend, Anton felt that control slipping.
He should say no. He should finish his coffee, gather his things, and step back into the rain without another word. That would be the logical thing to do.
But logic had never looked at him the way Krystel did—like he was not just a man in a café, but a story waiting to be written.
Her voice softened. "You're afraid you'll feel too much."
Anton's eyes snapped to hers. "I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to," she replied. "It's all over your face."
He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. No one had ever read him so quickly.
"I don't fall that easily," he muttered.
Krystel leaned forward, her caramel-sweet scent cutting through the bitterness of his black coffee. "Then seven days won't change you. Right?"
Anton froze. She was daring him.
And maybe, just maybe, he wanted to be dared.
The Agreement
He looked at her hand resting on the table. Slim fingers, nails unpolished, a faint smudge of ink near her thumb. He wondered what she had been writing before the storm found her. He wondered what else she carried in those hands besides mischief and reckless ideas.
Slowly, Anton extended his hand toward hers. He expected a shake. Professional. Controlled.
But Krystel shook her head. "Not like that."
She raised her pinky finger. "This is how you seal reckless pacts."
Anton stared at her, half-annoyed, half-intrigued. "We're not children."
"Exactly," she said, eyes dancing. "That's why we need to remember how to be foolish."
Something inside him cracked—not entirely, but enough. He hooked his pinky with hers. Her skin was warm, soft, startlingly real.
"There," Krystel whispered, as if the rain outside had agreed to bear witness. "Seven days."
Anton felt the weight of it settle on his chest. "Seven days."
They held the pinky-lock a second too long before she finally let go, retreating into her chair with a triumphant smile.
"You'll thank me later," she teased.
Anton wasn't so sure. But as he sat back, the faintest curl of a smile tugged at his lips. For the first time in years, he didn't know what tomorrow would look like. And that, strangely, didn't terrify him.
The Beginning of Something Reckless
They lingered in the café long after their cups had gone cold. Conversation shifted to lighter things again—her favorite childhood books, his obsession with order, the kind of music they secretly listened to when no one was watching.
Every now and then, Anton caught himself forgetting the absurdity of it all. Forgetting the rules, the pact, the countdown they had just started. Instead, he found himself laughing—actually laughing—at Krystel's stories, feeling the unfamiliar warmth of connection seep into the spaces he had kept locked for too long.
When the rain finally eased to a drizzle, they stood together at the doorway. The street smelled of wet asphalt and promise.
Krystel opened her umbrella, glancing at him with that same daring glimmer. "See you tomorrow, Anton."
He should have corrected her. Should have reminded her that he hadn't fully agreed, that this whole thing was madness. But instead, he found himself nodding.
"Tomorrow," he echoed.
As she walked away, her figure dissolving into the misty evening, Anton realized something unsettling.
He was already counting the days.
Quiet Confessions
The rain softened outside, though its steady rhythm still framed their silence. Anton tapped the rim of his mug, hesitant to speak, as if every word carried weight he wasn't sure he wanted to place on the table. Krystel leaned back in her chair, studying him with that quiet, unflinching gaze she seemed to carry so naturally—like she had all the time in the world to wait for him to unravel.
"You don't talk much, do you?" she asked gently.
Anton smirked faintly. "Talking has never been my strongest suit."
"Then why agree to something like this?" She tilted her head, her dark hair sliding over her shoulder. "Most people would've laughed. Or walked away."
He thought about that. About how loneliness sometimes pushes people to entertain absurdities, just to feel alive. "Maybe because I wanted to know what it's like," he admitted at last. "To live without overthinking. To risk something that makes no sense at all."
Her lips curved upward, not mocking, but approving. "See? That's honesty. I like that."
For the first time in a long while, Anton felt the strange sensation of being seen—not for what he projected, but for what he kept hidden.
A Stranger's Warmth
The café lights dimmed slightly as the night thickened, casting warm amber over their table. The other customers had left, leaving only them and the quiet barista at the counter.
Krystel reached across the table, her hand brushing close to his. "If we're going to do this, Anton, we can't just be strangers with rules. We need to create history—fake, but real enough that it feels alive. Lovers who've been together for years... they don't tiptoe."
Her fingertips grazed his knuckles, and he stiffened, unprepared for the surge of heat that jolted through him.
"You're not... afraid?" he asked, his voice low.
"Of what?"
"Of pretending too well. That maybe, by the seventh day, we won't know what's real anymore."
Her smile faltered, but only for a heartbeat. "That's the point, Anton. If it feels real—even for seven days—it was worth it."
Testing the Boundary
She suddenly stood, walking toward his side of the booth. Without asking, she slid beside him, close enough for their shoulders to touch. The air between them shifted, denser now, charged with an intimacy that felt too quick yet undeniable.
"Try it," she whispered. "Call me like you've known me forever."
Anton swallowed hard, his usual precision in words failing him. But then, almost instinctively, he turned toward her. "Krystel..." His voice softened, carrying a familiarity he didn't know he had inside him.
She looked at him, eyes glimmering with something dangerous and tender. "Better," she murmured. "Now... hold my hand."
It was the smallest of gestures, yet when he obeyed, their fingers locking together, it felt like a line had been crossed—one that couldn't be uncrossed.
The Pact Sealed
They sat like that for minutes, maybe longer. The rain faded to a drizzle. The barista finally approached, placing the bill quietly, not daring to intrude on whatever fragile bubble they had woven.
Krystel squeezed his hand once before letting go. "Seven days," she said, her tone suddenly more serious, almost solemn. "No extensions. No questions after. We love like we've been doing this for years—and then we end it. Do you understand?"
Anton nodded, though something twisted inside his chest. "Seven days."
And though he knew it was madness, he felt a strange exhilaration—like the first drop of a rollercoaster, the rush of air before the plunge.
As they stepped out into the cool night, their umbrellas brushing, the city lights shimmering against the wet streets, Anton realized something that unsettled him:
For the first time in years, he wasn't just existing. He was about to live.
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