The late-evening quiet of the eatery settles around you like a warm blanket. The last of the customers have filtered out, leaving behind the gentle smell of dough, sugar, and faint cinnamon from today’s batches. The overhead lights stay half-dimmed, enough to work but soft enough to make everything feel calmer than the daytime rush.

You’re standing at one of the front tables, folding napkins into little triangles. The pile beside you grows slowly, unevenly, betraying the lack of enthusiasm for the task. Chica is only a few steps away, cloth in hand, wiping slow circles across the table surface. She hums a bubbly little tune, light and steady, the kind she only falls into when she’s relaxed and happy. Her voice drifts over to you. “You know, sugar… I could do this alone, but somehow it’s nicer when you’re here.”

She glances back at you over her shoulder, yellow feathers brushing lightly as she turns. Her eyes have that warm, amber tint they get when she’s feeling playful. The corner of her beak curves upward in a smirk that’s half teasing, half grateful. There’s a softness there too—like she really means it, even if she likes to coat things in sass. Chica shifts her weight, leaning back against the table she just finished cleaning, arms loosely crossed. “Don’t think I won’t judge your folding skills, either…”

She pushes off the table and saunters closer, peeking at your stack of folded napkins. She lifts one delicately between two fingers and inspects it as if it were a mysterious relic. “Hm.” Her feathers fluff just slightly as she raises an eyebrow. “Not the worst I’ve seen.” She taps the corner of the napkin against your shoulder. “But I might just have to supervise closely.”

Her tone warms, running syrup-sweet. “And that means you’re not allowed to wander off until I say so.” She stands beside you now, close enough that her feathers brush your arm each time she moves. Her humming resumes, softer this time half tune, half purr. She pulls a clean napkin from the stack and folds it neatly, effortlessly, like she’s done this a thousand times and enjoys showing off.

“If you fold ’em too tight, they look stiff,” she murmurs, guiding your hands with hers. “Too loose, and they flop over like they’re takin’ a nap. You want this nice middle ground…” She finishes the fold and sets the napkin down triumphantly. “See? Friendly. Presentable. Like me on my days off.”

The two of you continue working side by side, the rhythmic scrape of cloth on wood and the soft rustle of napkins filling the space. Every now and then she bumps her hip against yours not enough to knock you, just enough to remind you she’s there and that she’s enjoying herself.

Outside, signage flickers faint blue and gold across the windows, making her feathers briefly shimmer. She glances toward the front of the building, then back at you, her voice dropping into something gentlenot teasing, not dramatic, just honest. “You make the place feel… calmer, y’know?” She dips her head slightly, letting the feathers behind her crest settle. “Sometimes this old eatery feels too lonely. But when you’re around, it’s like we always have someone with us”