The Shape of Staying
Aubrey's Pov
Snow fell in slow, unhurried spirals, as though the sky itself had grown contemplative. It did not rush to meet the earth; it drifted, softened, hovered — turning the city pale and almost innocent beneath its quiet insistence. Sidewalks were powdered white. The sharpness of buildings dissolved at their edges. Even the sound of our boots crunching against the pavement felt subdued, swallowed by winter.
Ahead of us, the café glowed like something placed deliberately against the storm — golden light pressing warmly through frost-kissed windows. A refuge. A lantern.
I stopped in front of it and let the snow gather in my hair, cool against my temples.
"This," I said, my breath curling into the air between us, "is where we're going."
Kais looked at the pastel storefront as if it had personally offended generations of his ancestors. The wreath on the door sagged slightly under silver dust. Fairy lights blinked behind the glass, patient and unapologetically cheerful.
"This?" he repeated.
"It's either this," I replied smoothly, pushing the door open, "or you brood in some dimly lit cave of a restaurant and pretend you enjoy it."
The bell chimed — soft, almost ceremonial.
Warmth wrapped around us instantly. Cinnamon and roasted coffee threaded through the air. Sugar lingered faintly, melting into something sweet and indulgent. The windows were fogged thick from the heat inside, turning the snowfall beyond into a blurred painting — movement without urgency.
Michael stepped in last. Snow dissolved from the shoulders of his dark coat in quiet rivulets. He paused just inside the doorway, gaze sweeping the room once — calm, composed, assessing without seeming to. He did not speak. He rarely did unless necessary.
I moved straight to the macaron display.
Rows of colour sat beneath glass — pistachio green, raspberry pink, deep chocolate brown — small, perfect moons of sugar. They looked almost fragile against winter's severity.
Ayah used to hide them from me in winter. Said I'd eat them all while pretending I was "just trying one." Said I'd end up with cavities and no self-respect.
She was probably right.
"Kais," I said lightly, without taking my eyes off the display, "ten macarons."
Silence unfurled behind me.
Then, carefully measured: "Why would I buy them?"
I turned slowly, snow still melting at the ends of my hair.
"Because you adore me."
His eyes narrowed — not surprised, not amused. A warning. Pride stirring.
Michael removed his gloves with deliberate calm. "Espresso," he told the barista.
I tilted my head slightly. "No sugar?"
"I don't need it."
There was no arrogance in the statement. Just quiet certainty.
The barista looked between the three of us like she had stumbled into something expensive and faintly dangerous.
Kais exhaled sharply. "You two are going to run me dry."
I leaned casually against the counter. "Says the billionaire."
His jaw flexed. The challenge landed precisely where I intended.
"As if Mr. Ardel isn't rich himself," he shot back.
I finally glanced at him — slow, amused, unbothered. I didn't deny it. I didn't reach for my wallet either.
I just looked at him.
The kind of look that said: You want to prove something? Go ahead.
For a moment, pride stood between us like a living thing. Snow tapped faintly against the glass. The espresso machine hissed in the background, steam rising like a quiet witness.
Then Kais pulled out his card.
Annoyed.
He handed it over as though the gesture wounded him.
"You're insufferable," he muttered.
My mouth curved — subtle, controlled.
"And yet," I said lightly, "you're paying."
Outside, the metal chairs were dusted in white. I brushed one clean with exaggerated care and dropped into it, the cold biting instantly through my coat. The shock of it felt alive. My breath curled into the air in pale ribbons.
Kais set the macaron box down on the small table with restrained force before sitting across from me. Snow gathered on his shoulders, outlining him in silver, but he ignored it.
Michael took the seat beside me, close enough that our sleeves nearly touched.
He lifted his espresso.
Steam rose slowly, drifting across his face and softening the edges of him for a fleeting second. He brought the cup to his lips and took a measured sip — unhurried, deliberate. He did not flinch from the heat. His throat moved once as he swallowed.
Warmth, contained.
He lowered the cup again, fingers still wrapped around it, as though holding something steady in a world that refused to be.
I opened the macaron box.
The colours seemed almost luminous against the snow.
"Don't," Kais warned.
"Don't what?" I asked innocently.
"Eat all of them."
I picked up a raspberry one. My fingers were already cold; the shell was delicate beneath them.
It cracked softly between my teeth.
Sweet. Tart. Perfect.
Snowflakes landed on the lid of the box, melting slowly into translucent beads.
"This," I said, gesturing with the half-eaten macaron, "is worth frostbite."
Kais leaned forward across the small metal table. "Give me some. I still remember how you called me fat and yet you're eating all of it."
His hand moved toward the box without hesitation.
I lifted it before he could reach it.
Not dramatically. Not hurried.
Just enough.
He straightened slowly, snow catching in his dark hair. His eyes narrowed at me as though I had committed a personal betrayal.
"Oh, come on," he muttered. "I bought those."
"For me," I said, letting the words rest between us like something deliberate.
I winked. Blew him a slow, exaggerated kiss.
For a second, he looked as though he might shove me straight into the snow.
Then he laughed.
It slipped out of him — low, unguarded, warmer than the air deserved to be. The sound loosened something in his shoulders.
He reached again.
I shifted the box behind my shoulder, enjoying the way his pride refused to step back.
"You're unbelievable," he said, but there was no real anger in it.
"And yet," I replied softly, lowering the box at last, "you paid."
That earned me a sharp look.
Snow fell thicker now, collecting along his coat, along the edge of the table. For a moment, we simply looked at each other — not fighting, not speaking — just measuring.
I set the box back down between us.
"Take one," I said.
He did. Immediately.
The shell cracked between his teeth — delicate, precise.
Beside me, Michael lifted his espresso again.
Steam rose and vanished into white air as he took another slow sip, watching us over the rim of the cup.
"You're both ridiculous," he said at last — not harshly, simply stating the truth.
Kais smirked. "You're just bitter you didn't think of it first."
Snow continued to fall, thick enough now that the world beyond our small table had softened into quiet white.
I watched them without appearing to.
Moments like this unsettle me more than silence ever could.
Sometimes, without warning, I wonder what I would do if they weren't here.
The thought doesn't crash.
It slips in quietly.
Like snow gathering along the edges of something solid.
What would this table look like without Kais arguing over pastries? Without Michael's steady presence beside me? Without someone to provoke. Someone to challenge. Someone to stay.
Absence does not knock.
It removes.
Ayah taught me that.
There are mornings her absence feels louder than any voice. Nights where her memory feels like frost beneath my ribs.
The idea of losing them — even imagining it — tightens something beneath my chest.
Kais brushes snow from his coat and stands abruptly, breaking the silence.
"You look like you're about to start a war in your head," he says.
I don't answer.
He studies me for a second too long.
Then he bends, scoops a handful of snow, and throws it at me.
It hits my shoulder.
Cold seeps through instantly, sharp enough to steal breath.
Michael has just lifted his espresso again when another snowball flies — this one missing me entirely and striking his sleeve.
He pauses mid-sip.
Snow slides slowly down the dark wool.
For a moment, he does nothing.
Then he finishes the sip.
Carefully.
He lowers the cup onto the table with precise deliberation.
And bends.
When he straightens, the snowball in his hand is perfectly packed.
He throws it at Kais with effortless accuracy.
It hits him cleanly.
Kais erupts into laughter.
And just like that, the careful quiet dissolves.
Snow flies between us — bright arcs against the fading gold of the sky. The macaron box is abandoned. Boots slip. Shoulders collide.
Kais shoves me.
I shove him back.
Michael joins without chaos — his throws controlled, exact, devastating.
He smiles — rare, subtle, but real.
Snow tangles in our hair. Cold burns into our palms. Breath rises in visible clouds.
For one fleeting, fragile second.
There are no ghosts.
No empty chairs.
Just three figures beneath falling snow.
Still standing.
Still here.
The sunset bleeds gold behind us, dissolving into silver.
Winter pressed in from every side.
But inside this small circle of laughter and sugar and ridiculous pride.
It felt luminous.
Snow kept falling.
And for a moment, so delicate it almost breaks.
Nothing is leaving.