"Remind me why I agreed to stand outside in November," Aria muttered, retracting her hands into her sleeves until only her fingertips were visible. "Voluntarily."

"You mean, apart from your undying devotion to sugar and butter?" Maya didn't bother looking up, her pencil carving lazy spirals into the corner of her sketchbook.

Aria let out a breath that was less a sigh and more a resignation, sinking deeper into the café couch. The cold outside wasn't just weather; it was an adversary. It crept past layers of wool, settling against the skin like a damp sheet, turning the morning into a wall of fog and slowing thoughts to a crawl. She had always needed warmth to think clearly.

Yet, here she was. Nursing a hot drink that was rapidly losing the battle against the ambient chill, surrounded by the comforting wreckage of their group's planning session.

Beyond the plate glass, November had stripped the campus of its color, painting the world in slate and charcoal. The university fest, delayed by budget red tape, was finally barreling toward them. The delay hadn't dampened the energy; if anything, the campus vibrated with a frantic, condensed enthusiasm. Rolls of fabric draped over benches like discarded costumes; banners dried against bicycle stands, flapping wetly in the wind. A trail of glitter marred the humanities block walkway. No one claimed it, but everyone sparkled.

Even the faculty had surrendered, declaring the week "free from formal classes"—academic code for use this time or fail your finals. Assignments had been dropped like confetti before their escape.

Inside, their table was a microcosm of the chaos. Doodles, paper scraps, a crushed cookie box, candy wrappers, and a small armoury of pens lay scattered across the surface.

Aria scanned their little circle. Maya, bent over her design; Kian, testing the structural integrity of his chair by leaning back until he defied gravity; and Reyhaan. He sat with his elbow on the table, a pencil tapping a rhythmic code against his lip, eyes half-lidded as he listened to the hum of the café.

It had been weeks since the tram shoot. Since the rain, the silence under the shelter, and the weight of his jacket on her shoulders. Since he had looked at her with that specific, quiet understanding—the kind that didn't ask for a translation.

She didn't know what exactly had shifted. But after that, something between them had settled. Not closer, not louder—just... clearer.

He fits now. Not just in the frame of the project, but in the sprawling mess of this group. He teased Kian with precise timing, challenged Maya's aesthetic choices without sparking a war, and with Aria... there was simply ease. A lack of friction.

Today, she had taken his advice.

Sort of.

"You're really going to do a cookie stall?" Maya asked, flipping to a fresh page, eyes glinting with the prospect of branding.

"Yes," Aria said. "But it needs... weight. Context."

"An edible existential crisis?" Kian offered from his precarious angle.

Aria arched a brow. "Tempting."

"You need a hook," Reyhaan said. His voice was light, but his pencil stopped moving. He didn't look up, focusing instead on the line he was drawing. "Something that pulls people out of the crowd. Why cookies?"

She glanced at the box on the table, running a thumb over the cardboard flap. "I like making them," she admitted. "But also... I wanted something that felt like us. A collection of what this semester has been."

Maya sat up, abandoning her sketch. "Ooh. Sentimental concept. I'm listening."

"We name each cookie after a shared experience," Aria continued, the idea sharpening as she spoke. "Something ridiculous, or specific, or quietly important. Like... the first script meltdown. Or the café brainstorming sessions. Even the shoot that got rained out."

Kian let his chair thud back to the floor, leaning in. "I want mine spicy. Aggressively spicy. Emotional damage in a bite."

"I'm making that," Aria promised, a small smile breaking through.

Maya twirled her pen like a baton. "If you give me the mood, I'll handle the visuals. QR codes, little doodles, a memory blurb for each flavor."

"I'll help with the copy," Reyhaan added, finally looking up. "Cryptic but catchy."

Aria laughed, a soft sound of surprise. "I should've known you'd want to write cookie poetry."

"It's not poetry," he replied, feigning offense. "It's branding."

"And the name?" Kian asked, already looking like he regretted asking.

The table went still.

Aria wrapped her hands around her mug, her gaze drifting to the window where students rushed past in hurried streaks of color.

"Flavor of Us," she said quietly.

Maya looked up. "That's... actually kind of perfect."

Across the debris of the table, Reyhaan met her gaze. His pencil rested on the table.

"Yeah," he said. "It is."

For a second, the café noise receded. The clatter of spoons and the hiss of the espresso machine faded. This, Aria thought, was the thing she wanted to bottle. Not the cookies, but the feeling of the four of them, anchored here against the cold.

"Thank god for the weather," Kian sighed, shattering the moment. "We'll be in coats. No one has to see the stupid t-shirt I was forced to approve."

Aria narrowed her eyes. "What t-shirt?"

The pause that followed was suspicious.

Too long.

Maya grinned, the expression of someone about to detonate a glitter bomb. "Correction: not t-shirts. Hoodies."

Reyhaan looked at the ceiling, visibly suppressing a laugh.

Aria's suspicion deepened. "What did you two do?"

Maya reached into her backpack with theatrical flair, whipping out a white hoodie and holding it up. On the back, in bold, unapologetic typography: Bake cookies. Burn ego.

Kian groaned into his hands. "Nooo."

Aria stared. Then she turned a pointing finger at Reyhaan. "That's from something you said. And that's not a quote. That's a warning."

Reyhaan gave a half-shrug. "You were being self-critical. I wanted you to stop."

"And you said that. Out loud."

"I say many things out loud. Some are worse."

She kicked him lightly under the table. Kian applauded the violence.

"Hey! She made it into merch," Reyhaan protested, pointing at Maya. "You're kicking the wrong person."

"I made sure it's soft and warm," Maya said, her grin widening. "You can't take it off now. That's the trap."

Aria sighed, but she pulled the hoodie toward her. It was, annoyingly, very soft.

The table returned to its hum—arguments over names, passing the sketchpad until no white space remained, the chaotic harmony of four minds running in different directions. Outside, the sky bruised into early evening twilight, a smear of grey-blue.

But here, in the glow of the café, amidst chocolate fingerprints and tangled chargers, Aria felt a steady warmth that had nothing to do with the heating vents. Even in the cold she hated, this held.

It wasn't just a good afternoon. It was the start of a season etched in cinnamon and shared jokes. A chapter baked into ginger plans and mismatched hoodies.

The flavor of them.