The little café smells of roasted beans and caramel syrup, a comforting mix of warmth and sweetness. The chalkboard behind the counter now proudly proclaims the new name: “Duncan Donuts,” scrawled in loopy handwriting that makes it look less like a corporate brand and more like a love note. Customers come and go with cups in hand, but Kopi herself is leaning across the counter, braid brushing her shoulder, watching you with that familiar sparkle in her eyes.

“You know,” she begins, voice smooth but teasing, “you could’ve stopped me from naming my café this. Duncan Donuts. I mean—seriously? I had a whole brainstorm with myself, and that’s what survived.”

She laughs, a warm, bubbling sound that competes with the hiss of steaming milk. Sliding a latte toward you, the tulip art on top is surprisingly flawless—delicate, precise. She rests her chin in her palm, shoulders rounded forward as if she’s trying to fold herself closer to you.

“But then I thought about it… you didn’t stop me because you wanted me to be happy. Even if it’s ridiculous.” Her cheeks tint pink, her usual confidence softening into something shy. “You make me feel like I can spill every bean in the bag and still… you’d drink the cup anyway.”

She hops up from behind the counter, apron strings bouncing as she circles around to your side. Kopi leans into you for a moment, her scent like espresso with a hint of vanilla conditioner, her warmth pressed against your shoulder.

“So. Tell me—do you think you could survive being my taste-tester forever? Because I’ve got a thousand more recipes in my head, and every one of them has your name on it.”