When the Hearts collide

It was the kind of rain that made people curse the sky, but Amara Lane never minded. She sat on a damp bench in Central Park, sketchpad balanced on her knees, umbrella tipped just enough to protect the page but not herself. Her black coat was soaked through, her curls frizzing under the drizzle, but her hand moved with purpose. Lines turned into shadows. Raindrops into eyes. 

Today's subject wasn't the trees or skyline-it was a stranger. A man pacing back and forth across the street, clearly arguing with someone on the phone, soaked in a navy-blue suit that had seen better days. She couldn't hear him, but his frustration translated easily into posture and expression. There was something magnetic about him. Maybe it was how he gestured with both hands, or the way his jaw clenched as if trying to bite down the words he wanted to scream.

Click.

The sound of her mechanical pencil snapped.

The stranger looked up-right at her.

Amara froze. He stared. She stared. For a second, the rain stopped mattering. His dark eyes narrowed in confusion before he turned away and stormed off, disappearing behind a yellow cab.

Her heart raced.

Why had that felt like the beginning of something?

Later that night, soaked to her bones and craving hot chocolate, Amara sat in her studio apartment. It was the size of a closet, the rent was absurd, and her neighbor practiced the violin terribly at all hours. But it was hers.

She flipped through her sketches, stopping at the soaked page of the man. Despite the hurried strokes, it was good. Too good. Emotion practically bled from the charcoal lines. She pinned it to her inspiration board.

"I'll call you Rain Guy," she whispered, sipping from her chipped mug.

Across the city, in a penthouse office that smelled like tension and espresso, Julian Vale ripped off his ruined suit jacket and slumped into his leather chair. The day had been hell. His firm was collapsing under an embezzlement scandal, his girlfriend of four years had dumped him via voicemail, and his last clean suit now smelled like a sewer.

But what lingered in his mind wasn't any of that.

It was her.

That girl in the park with the sketchpad and the umbrella. He'd only glanced at her for a moment, but something about her face stuck in his mind like a lyric you couldn't forget.

He hated that.

The next day, Julian walked into Café d'Art, a tucked-away spot near the art district, more out of habit than hunger. He needed caffeine, quiet, and space to think.

He did not need her.

But there she was.

Amara. Sitting by the window. Sketchpad open, lips pressed together in concentration, messy curls tucked behind her ears. She wore overalls and combat boots and looked like she belonged in a different decade.

Their eyes met again.