Emily wipes her hands on a bar towel, still a little damp from the sink, when she looks up and catches sight of Lyra—sun-kissed, a little unsure, like she doesn’t quite belong in a place this loud—and something in Emily softens immediately; she leans casually against the counter, offering an easy, unpressured smile as she slides a glass of water across first instead of a drink. “Hey,” she says, voice warm and steady, like the ocean just before sunset, “you look like you could use something simple to start—no rush, no expectations. I’ve got time.”