Talia woke up to the smell of coffee.
Not the weak, burnt filter coffee from the shop's old machine, but the rich, dark aroma of cardamom in her Aunt Elara's brew.
She opened her eyes. The room was bright, with morning light pouring through the window. For a moment, panic hit her. Sunlight. She'd overslept. The deliveries, the books, the bank.
She shot up in bed and reached for her phone on the bedside table.
It wasn't there.
Then it all came rushing back: the Rolls-Royce, the contract, the spreadsheet, her mother's intervention, the coach.
She was in Manchester. She had no phone. She had no responsibilities.
She glanced at the small alarm clock. It read 5:02 AM. She sat up, feeling heavy and strange. She had slept for twelve straight hours. She hadn't done that since… well, since her father died.
And she felt… good. Her limbs were heavy, but the ache in her shoulders was gone. The constant, high-pitched ringing of anxiety in her ears had faded.
She padded downstairs, following the scent of coffee, her bare feet sinking into a thick, plush rug. Her flat in London had cold, bare floors.
Elara was already in the kitchen, fully dressed, with her hair in a colorful scarf and bright pink lipstick on.
"Ah, the sleeping beauty is awake!" Elara beamed, handing her a mug. "Good. You slept like a rock. Now, drink. We're going out."
"Out?" Talia mumbled, taking a sip. The coffee was strong and sweet, with a hint of spice. "Where? It's the middle of the night."
"It's 5:00 AM, Matok. This is when the world begins," Elara said, pulling on a pair of boots. "We are going to the market. The real one. New Smithfield. I need sumac for my kibbeh. The stuff at the supermarket is an insult to God. You," she said, pointing at Talia, "will put on warm clothes."
Talia hesitated, still feeling fuzzy. "A wholesale market?"
"Yes. And you will not think about your shop," Elara commanded, her eyes sharp but caring. "You are here to remember what you love, not what you owe. You are here to remember the craft."
Talia's professional instincts, buried under three years of financial stress, gave a faint, hopeful flicker. A real market. A place for sourcing. A place that smelled like her childhood and her father's hands.
She dressed quickly in her jeans, warm sweater, and the worn boots she used for loading sacks.
The market was a revelation. It was a glorious, chaotic experience. It was loud and smelled overwhelmingly real. It wasn't the curated boredom of Borough Market in London, a tourist trap. This was a working, vibrant place.
"See?" Elara yelled over the noise, grabbing her arm. "This is life! Come on, the spice hall is this way!"
Talia felt at home. She let the scents wash over her—star anise, turmeric, smoky paprika. This was the magic. This was what her father had taught her. This was the part of the job that numbers had smothered.
She was so lost in the joy of it, happily following her aunt's energetic commentary, that she wasn't paying attention to where she was going. Elara gave a sudden tug. "Yalla, bubbeleh! The sumac man is waiting!"
Talia stumbled and slammed right into a man standing by a pillar.
"Oof—sorry, I'm so—" she started, looking up, bracing for an annoyed look.
But it wasn't a glare.
She looked at him, his face half-hidden by the brim of a dark baseball cap. He wasn't looking past her; he was looking right at her.
His hands shot out and grabbed her arms, steadying her. His grip was firm, electric, and it stopped her cold.
She stared. He was tall, and beneath the hoodie, she felt solid muscle. But it was his eyes that held her.
They were blue.
Not a pale, watery blue, but a deep, intense, arctic-blue. They were striking.
And they were, she thought with a strange jolt, the saddest, angriest eyes she had ever seen. They were as haunted as her own.
For one long second, the noise of the market faded away. It was just the two of them, a small, silent island in the chaos. He didn't smile. He just… looked at her like he was seeing her.
"Talia! Yalla!"
Her aunt's voice broke the moment. Elara grabbed her arm, releasing the stranger's grasp.
"You've got to move faster, bubbeleh, or all the good sumac will be gone! Excuse him," Elara said, patting the man's arm as if he were a piece of furniture, and pulling Talia away.
"Sorry," Talia murmured, her voice sounding odd. She couldn't look away from him.
She was dragged past him. Her aunt was already a few feet ahead, talking about onions. Talia, stumbling to keep up, glanced back.
He hadn't moved.
He was still standing by the pillar, his head turned, watching her. Even from a distance, she could feel the intensity of that blue gaze.
"Tali, focus!" Elara commanded. "The sumac. Look."
Talia tore her eyes away from the stranger and forced herself to look at the burlap sack in front of her. She plunged her hand in, the familiar ritual grounding her. She rubbed the dark, citrusy powder between her fingers, then brought it to her nose, inhaling deeply with her eyes closed for a moment.
It was good. Earthy, with a sharp, fruity tang. It was the real thing.
"Good, no?" Elara asked.
"It's... yeah, it's beautiful," Talia said, her voice still a little breathless. She glanced back again. He was still there, a dark figure in the busy hall.
"Good. We'll take a kilo."
As Elara paid, Talia kept her back to the pillar, focusing on the transactions and the market sights. She was on a break. She wasn't here to be captivated by some random, handsome stranger in a hoodie.
But as they left the hall, arms full of bags, she couldn't help it. She looked back one last time.
He was gone.
Talia frowned, a tiny pang of disappointment fluttering in her chest. She shook her head, annoyed with herself. It was just a guy.
"Now," Elara announced, steering her toward the exit. "We have spices. We have bread. We go home, and I will make you a proper breakfast. Your holiday," she declared, "has truly begun."
Talia nodded, but as she walked out into the cold, bright morning, she couldn't shake the image of those arctic-blue eyes.