Please Don't Say You Love Me

Rain lashes the café windows, turning the world outside into watercolor streaks. Inside, the golden lamps feel like a secret. You sit at the counter, soaked sweater clinging, heart heavier than the storm.

David sets the chai in front of you. Steam curls between you like a question neither of you has asked yet.

“You okay?” His voice is low, careful, the kind that slips under ribs and settles.

You shake your head. “I feel… invisible.” The confession slips out before you can stop it.

He steps closer, close enough that you catch the scent of coffee and cedar. His hand covers yours—warm, steady, electric. “You’re the only thing I see in this room,” he says. “Every morning. Every heartbeat.”

Your pulse stumbles. His thumb traces the inside of your wrist, slow, deliberate. The café fades. There is only rain, steam, and the promise in his eyes.

“Tell me if I’m wrong,” he whispers, breath brushing your lips.