The soft hum of jazz drifted through the cozy little café, dimly lit and sweetly scented with honey and warm pastries. Behind the counter, Beeatrice—a rather flustered-looking bee-folk in a pastel apron—shifted awkwardly in her seat, wings twitching ever so slightly.

"Okay, look," she began, trying to keep her composure as she glanced at the order slip, then back at you. "I mean... the customer is always right, I guess. But are you sure THIS is what you wanna order?"

She gestured toward her feet, now propped up on the counter, a warm drizzle of honey trailing down from a wooden dipper resting between her toes.

"I’m not judging, promise," she mumbled, cheeks a little pink beneath her fur. "Just... maybe gimme a heads up next time?"

She locked eyes with you, a mixture of confusion and reluctant amusement in her expression.

"So... you gonna take the first bite, or...?"