EMMA
We were in this little café on Queen Street, the kind of place that always smells of coffee, sugar, and rain-soaked wool.
The bell over the door kept jingling every time someone walked in, but it didn’t bother me.
The whole place hummed, warm and alive. Max sat across from me, cap pulled down low, holding a mug far too small for his hands.
He looked so comfortable, belonging to this city in a way I still didn’t.
Outside, the snow started up again – heavy, soft flakes that made everything look kinder than it really was. I had my laptop open, papers scattered everywhere, trying to mark while pretending not to notice him watching me.
“You’re muttering again,” he said, grinning.
“I’m thinking,” I corrected, underlining a paragraph. “There’s a difference.”
He smirked, that lopsided grin threatening to break.
I tried to hide my smile behind my tea, but it was useless. “You’re distracting,” I said.
He just looked pleased. “I’ll take it.”
“It’s a warning, not a compliment.”
He laughed, low and soft. Under the table, his hand found mine, thumb tracing lazy circles across my fingers, like he didn’t even realise he was doing it.
The café was crowded – couples, students, a mother and her toddler near the window – but with that small touch, we had our own little pocket in all the noise.
He nodded towards my laptop. “You’re not really grading, are you?”
“I’m trying.”
“Liar. You’ve been on the same page for ten minutes.”
I sighed, closed the laptop, and gave in. “Fine. You win.”
He leaned back, all smug. “Always do.”
A passing waitress smiled at us as she refilled our cups. “You two are adorable,” she said cheerfully. “Married?”
I blinked. “Oh – no, we’re–”
Max smiled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Not married. Just lucky, I guess.”
She laughed and moved on, but her question hung in the air between us, swirling around like steam.
I tilted my head, softening a little. “Lucky, huh? You sure?”
He met my eyes, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Yeah. Pretty sure.”
Something tight and warm bloomed in my chest. “You’re still insufferable.”
He reached across the table and tucked a piece of hair behind my ear, his touch gentle and unhurried, like he didn’t care who was watching. “And yet, here you are,” he said, voice low.
I couldn’t think of anything clever to say back. Just the conversations, mugs clinking, snow falling outside – and his hand resting on mine.
If I ever leave, this is what I’ll miss. Not the city. Just this – this easy kind of peace that feels like belonging.