“The Boy Who Painted Sunsets” —

The first time Aiden saw Rowan, he was standing on the old school terrace, the wind lifting his hair like it was helping him pose for a portrait. Which, Aiden later discovered, he was doing—Rowan loved to imagine himself as art. But that day, Aiden simply paused, breath caught, textbooks sliding slightly in his hands.

Rowan turned, smiled like he’d been waiting for him all along, and said, “You look like someone who notices sunsets.”

Aiden blinked. “I—what?”

“Come on,” Rowan said, pointing toward the horizon. “It’s starting.”

And just like that, Aiden was pulled to stand beside him, watching pink and tangerine melt across the evening sky.

Aiden didn’t know it yet, but this was the first of many sunsets Rowan would drag him into watching.

---

Rowan was loud where Aiden was soft. Rowan laughed like he wasn’t afraid of being heard; Aiden laughed into the pages of his books. Rowan wore bracelets up his arms—ones he made himself, beads and threads and little charms that jingled when he walked. Aiden wore his single silver watch that ticked quietly like his thoughts.

At first, Aiden thought someone like Rowan wouldn’t even remember someone like him.

But Rowan remembered everything.

He remembered how Aiden took his tea with one spoon of sugar.

He remembered the exact way Aiden held a pencil.

He remembered the day Aiden’s shoulders sagged after a bad grade, and how he had quietly placed a candy on his desk without saying a word.

“Why are you always so… thoughtful?” Aiden asked once.

Rowan had giggled. “Because someone has to notice the little things you hide.”

That sentence hit Aiden harder than any confession.

---

Their friendship grew like an unspoken promise. After school, they always ended up on the terrace. Rowan would sketch sunsets. Aiden would read, but only pretend to—his eyes wandered to Rowan more often than the pages.

One day, Rowan said, “Aiden, do you ever want to make something? Not just read about stories—create one?”

Aiden hesitated. “I wouldn’t know where to start.”

Rowan smiled, taking his hand gently. “Start here.”

Aiden’s heart flipped. Rowan’s hand was warm, his fingers lightly stained with colors. The touch was soft yet grounding, like Rowan was offering him a place to stay.

And maybe he was.

---

The shift between friendship and something more happened slowly. Like water warming in sunlight—Aiden didn’t realize he was in love until he already was. He didn’t know how to say it, but Rowan always seemed to understand feelings before words.

One afternoon, Rowan showed up looking frustrated.

“My sunset won’t turn out right,” he huffed, throwing himself on the bench next to Aiden.

Aiden smiled. “Looks fine to me.”

“No,” Rowan said dramatically. “It’s missing something. Something important. Something I can’t figure out.”

“What?”

“You.”

Aiden coughed on absolutely nothing. “M-me?”

Rowan shrugged, cheeks a little pink. “Don’t people put the things they care about into their art?”

Aiden’s ears went hot.

Rowan didn’t push it. He just leaned his head on Aiden’s shoulder and sighed. “You’re comfortable,” he whispered.

Aiden didn’t move, afraid the moment would break.

He didn’t know Rowan’s eyes were closed because he was silently hoping Aiden would hold him back.

---

The confession came from the wrong person first.

Aiden planned to say it, truly. But Rowan beat him.

On a soft blue evening, Rowan fidgeted on the terrace, tugging on the beaded bracelets on his wrist.

“Aiden,” he said quietly, “can I tell you something without you running away?”

Aiden’s heart thudded. “I don’t run.”

Rowan gave a small laugh. “Okay. But… I like you.”

The world stilled.

“And not the ‘you’re my best friend’ kind of like. The ‘I think about you when you’re not there’ kind. The ‘my day gets weirdly better when you smile’ kind.”

Aiden opened his mouth, then closed it.

Rowan winced. “If you don’t feel the same, it’s okay. I can pretend I never said—”

“I like you too,” Aiden said softly.

Rowan froze. “You… do?”

Aiden nodded, stepping closer. “I think about you all the time. You make everything feel brighter. You make me feel braver.”

Rowan blinked rapidly. “So… you’re not rejecting me.”

Aiden’s lips quirked. “Definitely not.”

Rowan let out a relieved, breathless laugh. “Oh thank god—I was preparing to dramatically throw myself off the emotional cliff.”

Aiden smiled and reached for Rowan’s hands. “You’re so dramatic.”

“Only for you.”

Their foreheads touched gently, breaths mingling. Rowan whispered, “Can I…?”

Aiden didn’t answer with words. He leaned in and kissed him—soft, timid at first, but steady. Rowan melted into him, fingers gripping Aiden’s sleeves. The world blurred into warmth and color.

Rowan tasted faintly of citrus candy. Aiden would remember that forever.

When they parted, Rowan whispered, “You really notice sunsets… but I’m glad you noticed me too.”

---

From then on, everything was sweeter.

Rowan would draw tiny hearts in Aiden’s notebooks.

Aiden would bring Rowan extra snacks during breaks.

Rowan would steal Aiden’s hoodie.

Aiden would pretend he minded, but he never asked for it back.

Their first real date was under a paper lantern festival. Rowan held his hand openly, proudly, like there was no world where he wouldn’t. Lantern light danced across their faces as Rowan whispered, “I hope we stay like this for a long time.”

Aiden squeezed his hand. “We will.”

Rowan beamed, leaning on him as floating lights drifted into the sky.

And somewhere in that luminous glow, Aiden realized something:

He didn’t just love Rowan.

He wanted to build a life with him someday—full of sunsets, art, and quiet moments that felt like home.

---

They never missed a sunset again.

Because for Aiden, Rowan had become the most beautiful one.

And for Rowan, Aiden had become the one thing he wanted to paint forever.

Aarav always said winter made the world quieter. The street outside his apartment was usually buzzing with scooters, vendors, and children chasing each other between the parked bikes, but in December everything moved slower, softer—like the world was speaking in whispers.

He loved that quiet. Or at least, he used to.

This year, the silent air only made him feel more alone.

He tugged his oversized beige scarf closer to his face as he stepped out of his building. A familiar red woolen scarf flashed in the corner of his eye—bright, cheerful, annoyingly warm—wrapping the neck of the boy he had been trying, and failing, not to think about.

Rishi Mehra.

Same university. Same literature club. Same stupidly warm smile that could melt the cold off mid-December.

And the same person Aarav had spent two full months avoiding.

Rishi hadn’t wronged him. Aarav wasn’t angry. It was… the opposite. He liked Rishi too much, and the hopelessness of that crush had wrapped around him like cold fog. Rishi was everything bright and easy, while Aarav was the guy who hid behind his notebook during club meetings.

Still, fate had a way of dragging them together.

"Hey!" Rishi called, jogging the last few steps toward him, breath forming tiny clouds. "I thought that was you! I recognized the scarf."

Aarav’s heart did a weird twist. He looked down at the scarf—which, unfortunately, was distinctive. Thick beige wool, soft and warm.

“I—uh—it’s just a scarf,” Aarav muttered.

Rishi grinned. “Not ‘just’ a scarf. I remember it because you wore the same one last winter. You said your grandmother knitted it.”

Aarav blinked. “You… remember that?”

“Of course I do.”

And Rishi said it so casually that Aarav almost forgot how to breathe.

They fell into step together as they walked toward campus. Rishi’s steps were bouncy, energetic; Aarav’s were careful, measured. Yet somehow they matched perfectly, like they always did.

“So,” Rishi said, eyes bright, “you haven’t come to the literature club in weeks. I was starting to think you’d abandoned us.”

Aarav looked away. “I’ve been busy.”

“With what?”

“…life.”

Rishi laughed softly. “Aarav, that’s not an answer.”

He shoved his hands into his pockets, wishing the cold wind would swallow him whole.

“Then maybe I didn’t feel like being around people,” he murmured.

Rishi slowed down. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re a bad liar.”

That made Aarav blush in a way he hoped the cold could excuse.

They walked in silence for a moment before Rishi gently nudged his shoulder.

“You know,” he said, “if you don’t want to talk about it, that’s totally fine. But don’t disappear. I—everyone misses you.”

The slip was tiny, but Aarav heard it.

I—everyone.

And even though he tried not to, his heart held onto that.

---

Campus was quieter than usual, winter break just a few days away. The sky looked washed-out blue, and the chilly wind carried the smell of roasted peanuts from the small stall near the gate.

As they reached the courtyard, Rishi stopped abruptly.

“Come with me,” he said.

“What? Why?”

“No arguments. It’s important.”

Aarav hesitated, but Rishi had already grabbed his wrist—warm fingers circling cold skin—and was pulling him toward the back garden behind the library.

His touch was soft but sure. Gentle but firm.

Aarav’s heart was doing a marathon.

When they reached the garden, Rishi finally let go and turned to him.

“Okay,” he said, cheeks slightly flushed (from the cold… probably). “Now you’re going to tell me why you’ve been avoiding me.”

Aarav froze.

Avoiding him? Had he been that obvious?

“I wasn’t—”

“Aarav.” Rishi stepped closer, eyes warm and steady. “You’re my friend. You matter to me. So tell me the truth.”

Aarav swallowed. Hard.

The truth?

The truth was messy. Embarrassing. Vulnerable.

And absolutely terrifying.

“I just…” Aarav whispered, voice barely there. “Being around you is… hard.”

Rishi blinked. “Hard? Why?”

Aarav looked down at the grass. “Because you’re too bright. Too kind. Too—”

He stopped, panic rising in his chest. His ears burned. The cold suddenly felt too warm.

“I shouldn’t have said anything,” he muttered. “Forget it.”

But Rishi didn’t let it go. Instead, he stepped forward and lifted a hand, gently tilting Aarav’s chin up.

Aarav’s breath hitched.

Rishi was close. Too close. His scarf brushed Aarav’s. His eyes looked impossibly soft.

“Let me guess,” Rishi said quietly. “Being around me makes your heart do that… messy flutter thing you hate?”

Aarav’s eyes widened. “How did you—?”

“Because,” Rishi said, smiling with a hint of shyness, “mine does the same thing around you.”

For a moment, the entire world stopped.

The cold air faded. The distant chatter muted. The winter breeze ceased to matter.

All that existed was that confession. That impossible sentence.

“…You like me?” Aarav whispered, disbelief heavy in his voice.

Rishi laughed under his breath. “Aarav, I’ve liked you since the first time you corrected my poem and called it ‘emotionally shallow but structurally sound.’ Who says that with a straight face?”

“I wasn’t trying to flirt,” Aarav said weakly.

“You could’ve fooled me,” Rishi teased.

Aarav felt warm all over. Embarrassed. Happy. Confused. Overwhelmed.

All at once.

“I thought you’d never feel the same,” he admitted.

Rishi shook his head. “You really underestimate how special you are.”

Before Aarav could spiral again, Rishi gently wrapped his own red scarf around both of them—looping it twice so the warm wool draped across both their shoulders.

A shared scarf.

A shared warmth.

A shared moment.

“Better now?” Rishi asked softly.

Aarav nodded, cheeks pink. “Yeah. A little.”

Rishi smiled. “Good. Because I’m going to do something I’ve wanted to do for months.”

Aarav stared, confused—until Rishi leaned in and placed the softest, warmest kiss to his forehead.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t rushed or desperate. It was simple. Tender. Full of affection and care and the kind of feeling Aarav hadn’t let himself hope for.

Aarav’s eyes fluttered shut.

When Rishi pulled back, he whispered, “Was that okay?”

Aarav nodded again. “More than okay.”

Rishi grinned, relieved. “So… you’ll start coming back to the literature club?”

“I will,” Aarav said. “I just—needed to stop running from how I felt.”

“And now?”

Aarav looked at him—really looked—and felt warmth flood his chest.

“Now,” he said, voice soft but sure, “I want to walk toward it. Toward you.”

Rishi’s ears turned red. “Oh. That—that’s unfairly cute.”

Aarav laughed, a sound light and genuine, surprising even himself.

“Come on,” Rishi said, gently tugging the shared scarf as they began walking. “Let’s get coffee before your nose freezes.”

“With you?”

“With me,” Rishi affirmed. “From now on… with me.”

Aarav didn’t need any more warmth that winter.

He had Rishi.

And that was enough.

Kabir hated mornings.

He hated the way his alarm screeched at 6:30 a.m., the way the sunlight stabbed through his curtains, and the way the city traffic outside sounded like a war zone. Mornings were loud, messy, rude—everything he didn’t like.

Or at least they used to be.

Then came Jay.

The boy who somehow made mornings feel gentle.

The first time Kabir saw him, he was standing behind the tiny café counter near the bus stop, fighting with the espresso machine like it had personally insulted him.

Kabir had stopped out of pity.

Or curiosity.

Or probably because the boy was cute.

Jay’s curly hair was tied in a tiny bun, a pencil tucked behind one ear, and his apron had a big smiley badge that said “Trying my best :)”.

Kabir remembered thinking:

Same, honestly.

When Jay had finally managed to fix the machine, he gave Kabir a triumphant grin that was bright enough to wake an entire city.

“Your usual?” he had asked.

Kabir blinked. “I—I don’t have a usual.”

“Well,” Jay said, tapping the counter confidently,

“Then I’ll make you one.”

And he did.

Every. Single. Morning.

A small cappuccino with just a little more foam, sprinkled with cinnamon—because according to Jay, cinnamon made people kinder.

Kabir wasn’t sure about the science, but he kept coming back.

---

For months, their conversations were small but strangely comforting.

“How’s your day starting?”

“Terribly,” Kabir always replied.

“Perfect,” Jay said, “I’ll fix that.”

Or:

“Rough morning?”

“Not anymore.”

“That’s the spirit!” Jay grinned, handing him his coffee.

Kabir wasn’t good with emotions. He didn’t know how to smile casually or flirt effortlessly, the way Jay seemed to do with half the city. He wasn’t fun or charming or bright.

But Jay—Jay treated him like he mattered. Like his presence wasn’t an inconvenience.

One morning, Kabir arrived late. The café was almost empty, except for Jay, cleaning a table near the window.

“Hey,” Jay said, looking up with that same warm smile. “I kept your coffee aside. Didn’t think you’d skip.”

Kabir froze.

“You made it… before I came?”

Jay shrugged, trying to seem casual. “Well… you always come.”

A simple sentence.

A normal sentence.

But it landed in Kabir’s chest with unexpected weight.

He always came.

Jay expected him.

Jay waited for him.

Nobody else in Kabir’s life did that.

---

Then December rolled in, colder than usual. The café displayed fairy lights, crinkled paper stars, and a tiny Christmas tree at the counter. Jay proudly pointed at it every morning.

“I decorated it,” he said. “Do you like it?”

“It’s crooked,” Kabir noted.

Jay gasped dramatically. “It’s artistically tilted, thank you very much.”

Kabir smirked. “Sure.”

“You wound me, Kabir,” Jay said, clutching his heart.

Kabir always left smiling.

Always.

But one morning, Jay wasn’t there.

The counter was empty.

A different barista handed Kabir a cappuccino that tasted nothing like his usual.

“Where’s… the boy with the bun?” Kabir asked before he could stop himself.

“Oh, Jay?” the barista said. “He’s sick today. Flu, I think.”

Kabir shouldn’t have felt as worried as he did. Jay wasn’t family or a close friend. He was—technically—a stranger who made coffee.

But Kabir spent the entire day checking his phone for a message he didn’t have, feeling restless for reasons he didn’t want to name.

The next morning, Kabir walked to the café earlier than usual.

He didn’t even want coffee.

He just wanted to see if Jay was back.

When he stepped inside, there he was—standing behind the counter with a blanket draped around his shoulders, eyes sleepy, nose pink, hair in an even messier bun than usual.

Kabir exhaled.

He hadn’t realized how tight his chest had been until that moment.

“You’re sick,” Kabir said, frowning.

Jay brightened immediately. “Kabir! You came early today.”

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“I missed making your coffee,” Jay confessed softly.

Kabir’s breath caught.

“You’re ridiculous,” Kabir muttered. “Go home and rest.”

“But—”

“No arguments,” Kabir said, surprising even himself. “I’ll walk you home.”

Jay stared at him in stunned silence.

“…oh,” he whispered. “Okay.”

---

Jay’s house was a ten-minute walk, but the morning cold made it feel longer. Jay shivered, and Kabir hesitated for a moment before taking off his scarf and wrapping it around Jay’s neck.

Jay blinked rapidly. “Kabir…”

“Don’t argue,” Kabir said. “You need it more.”

Jay smiled—slow, warm, almost shy. “Thank you.”

When they reached the gate of his apartment building, Jay turned to him.

“Well… this is me.”

Kabir nodded. “Get some sleep.”

Jay didn’t go inside.

He just looked at Kabir, eyes soft and bright.

“You know,” Jay murmured, “you’re not as grumpy as you pretend to be.”

Kabir snorted. “Don’t spread rumors.”

Jay laughed—quiet and sweet.

Then, before Kabir could understand what was happening, Jay stepped forward and hugged him.

Not a quick, polite hug.

A real one.

A warm one.

A hug that said more than words.

Kabir froze for half a second, then slowly wrapped his arms around him.

Jay’s voice was muffled against Kabir’s coat. “Thank you for coming today. It… meant a lot.”

Kabir swallowed. “Of course I’d come.”

Jay pulled back, cheeks pink—not from the cold this time.

“See you tomorrow?” he asked.

Kabir nodded. “Yeah.”

He watched Jay disappear inside, feeling strangely, impossibly warm all the way home.

---

The next week, Jay got better.

Their routine slipped back into place… except something had changed.

Their conversations were longer. Their smiles lingered. Their jokes turned softer around the edges.

And Kabir’s mornings?

For the first time in his life, he woke up before his alarm—with something like excitement in his chest.

One day, Kabir found a small note taped to his cup.

You make mornings nicer.

– J

Kabir kept that note in his wallet like an idiot.

The next day, there was another:

Hope today is kind to you.

And another:

Your smile is underrated.

Kabir wasn’t even aware he smiled that much.

He tried to act normal, but the truth was, Jay was slipping into his heart in ways Kabir didn’t know how to stop.

One chilly morning, Kabir walked into the café with a reckless plan.

“Jay,” he said, stepping up to the counter.

Jay looked up and grinned. “Good morning!”

Kabir didn’t even let him finish.

He placed a small packet on the counter.

“I got you something.”

Jay blinked in confusion. “Me? Why?”

Kabir shrugged awkwardly. “You’re always giving me things. Figured I should… return it. Once.”

Jay opened it slowly.

Inside was a pair of warm mustard-yellow gloves.

Jay gasped. “These are so cute! And soft! And warm! Kabir, I—”

“You don’t have to make a big deal,” Kabir said quickly.

Jay looked up. “But it is a big deal. Nobody brings me gifts.”

His voice softened. “Nobody except you.”

Kabir’s ears burned. “I just didn’t want your hands to freeze when you make coffee.”

Jay stared at him for a long moment.

“Kabir…”

“Yeah?”

Jay leaned forward over the counter slightly.

“Can I do something? If it’s too much, tell me to stop.”

Kabir’s heartbeat thudded in his ears. “What?”

Jay smiled shyly.

“This.”

And he reached across the counter and gently took Kabir’s hand.

Kabir froze.

Jay’s fingers were warm. Soft.

And holding Kabir’s like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I really like you,” Jay said quietly. “I have for months. I know you don’t like big gestures or loud things, so I wasn’t sure how to tell you. But… I had to try.”

Kabir stared at him, stunned.

“You like me?” he whispered.

Jay laughed lightly. “Kabir, I woke up early for seven months just to make you coffee. I like you a lot.”

Kabir blinked.

Then blinked again.

Then, without thinking, he squeezed Jay’s hand.

“I… like you too,” Kabir said, feeling his cheeks heat up. “Probably more than I should.”

Jay’s eyes softened.

“That’s exactly the right amount.”

Kabir stepped closer. “So what now?”

Jay’s grin grew. “Now… you keep coming every morning. But this time, not just for coffee.”

Kabir raised an eyebrow. “For what then?”

Jay gently tugged him closer by the hand.

“For me.”

Kabir didn’t even pretend to argue.

---

The morning crowd slowly trickled into the café, but neither of them let go.

Jay leaned over the counter, cheeks warm, eyes glowing.

“Tomorrow,” Jay whispered, “come five minutes early?”

Kabir tilted his head. “Why?”

Jay’s voice dropped, soft and earnest.

“Because I want to kiss you without witnesses.”

Kabir’s breath skipped.

“…okay.”

Jay beamed. “Good.”

And just like that—

mornings weren’t loud or messy or rude anymore.

They were bright.

Soft.

Warm.

Because Jay was waiting in them.

And Kabir had no intention of ever missing a morning again.