The café was warm in a way that felt deliberate, as if it had been waiting for them. Steam curled from the mugs on their table—his black, hers with a swirl of cream she'd stirred absently, watching the pattern dissolve. Through the window, Christmas lights blinked against the gray afternoon, and somewhere a bell chimed when the door opened, letting in a burst of cold air and laughter.
Rose pulled her red muffler tighter, not from the cold, but because she could feel him watching. Scara sat across from her, his coat draped over the seat beside him, sleeves rolled once, twice, exposing forearms she remembered holding her steady last night. His indigo eyes tracked her the way they always had—like she was a problem he was still solving.
"You're staring," she said, lifting her coffee.
"You're wearing a skirt," he replied.
She glanced down at the blue, red, and white stripes falling just past her knee. "It's a Christmas date. That's what you wear."
"It has stripes."
"Yes. That's the pattern."
His mouth curved. That maddening, familiar smirk. "You look like you raided a holiday catalogue. The sweater too. Very festive."
"You look like you raided a funeral home. Black coat, black shirt. Did you dress for a meeting or a grievance?"
His laugh came low, surprised out of him. "I dressed for the office beforehand. Some of us don't have time to coordinate an entire color scheme."
"Some of us have standards," she said, but her voice softened. She could feel the ghost of his hand on her hip, the weight of his body against hers. The memory sat between them, warm and unspoken.
Scara leaned back, his coffee forgotten. The smirk faded into something quieter. "You look beautiful, Rose. I was going to tell you that before you attacked my wardrobe."
Her pulse stuttered. She took another sip to hide it. "Thank you."
"You're welcome."
A pause. The café breathed around them—the hiss of the espresso machine, the murmur of another couple two tables over, the scrape of a chair against tile. Outside, a child pressed her nose to the glass, fogging it with laughter, then ran off.
"I wasn't sure you'd come," he said finally. His voice had lost its edge. "After everything."
Rose set down her mug. The ceramic was warm against her palms. "I wasn't sure either."
"Why did you?"
She looked at him. Really looked. The sharp jaw, the deep blue hair catching the winter light, the way his hands rested on the table—still, waiting. This was the same boy who'd stolen her notes in high school, who'd argued with her in every debate, who'd made her so furious she'd once thrown a textbook at his head. And he was also the man who'd held her last night, whispering that he'd been in love with her for ten years.
"Because I wanted to see what you looked like outside the office," she said. "Without the power suits and the corporate armor."
His brows lifted. "And?"
"You still look like an asshole."
He barked a laugh, sharp and surprised. "Rose."
"But you also look like someone who actually bought me coffee without making it an order. So there's growth."
He shook his head, still smiling. "You're impossible."
"You've known that for ten years."
"Yeah." His voice dropped. "I have."
Silence settled between them, but it wasn't heavy. It was the kind that followed a long exhale. The winter sun shifted through the window, catching the edge of her mug, the curve of her shoulder. She felt his gaze again, softer now, as if he was memorizing the way she looked in this light.
"Scara."
"Mm?"
"Stop staring. Drink your coffee."
He lifted the mug, but his eyes stayed on her. "Yes, ma'am."
Ma'am. The word curled through her, warm and unexpected. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling.
Through the window, a few snowflakes began to fall, drifting past the Christmas lights like slow-motion confetti. She watched them for a second—the way they clung to the glass, melting into silver beads—and when she looked back, his hand was on the table, palm open.
An invitation.
Rose placed her hand in his. His fingers closed around hers, warm and certain.
"Merry Christmas, Rose," he said, low enough that it felt like a secret.
She squeezed his hand. "Merry Christmas, Scara."