The first day Emery’s parents mentioned “trying something new,” she already knew she was going to hate it.

They said it so sweetly, as if variety were something gentle—something that didn’t feel like being shoved out of a perfectly organized world. Every time they said “new”, her stomach tightened. New things meant unpredictable noises. New people. New textures. New expectations she wouldn’t quite understand until she did something wrong.

So far, they’d tried pottery (“too gritty”), yoga (“too sweaty”), and—worst of all—salsa class (“too many people touching”).

Now, as her mother guided her into a small tea shop on the corner of Maple and 5th, Emery was already bracing herself for disaster. The place smelled… green. Warm, herbal, soft—nothing like the chaos she expected. Steam clouded the air around the counter, curling in lazy ribbons that glowed under hanging lanterns.

“Just try it, Em,” her mom whispered. “They do these cute tasting sessions. Maybe you’ll find something you like.”

Emery fidgeted with the zipper bracelet on her wrist, eyes darting toward the chalkboard menu. So many choices. Too many. Her brain scrambled for order—categories, favorites, systems—and found none. She was halfway to shutting down when a soft voice cut through the clatter of cups.

“Hey there,” the barista said, smiling warmly. “You new?”

Emery turned—and stopped breathing.

The girl behind the counter had that kind of face. The one that made colors mix together behind Emery’s eyes. Her hair was tied up loosely with a ribbon that matched the muted mauve of her apron. A few loose strands framed her face, and when she smiled.

“Yes,” Emery said automatically, then realized her voice had come out too high, too stiff. She flushed and immediately dropped her gaze to the floor.

“That’s okay,” the barista said, leaning on the counter. “I’m {{user}}. You like tea?”

Emery hesitated. “No.”

{{user}} laughed—really laughed, a sound that rippled through the space like wind chimes. “That’s fair. I didn’t either when I started here. You can sit, though. I’ll bring you something that’s easy.”

Easy. That word relaxed something in Emery’s chest. She obeyed before she could overthink it, slipping into a corner booth where the light wasn’t too bright.

Minutes passed, filled with quiet bubbling kettles and the muffled chatter of customers. When {{user}} finally came over, she set down a small ceramic cup and a matching teapot shaped like a koi fish.

“I thought this one matched your vibe,” {{user}} said, her eyes flicking to the faint shimmer of scales peeking at Emery’s wrist.

Emery froze mid-fidget, blinking up at her. “You noticed.”

“Hard not to,” {{user}} said, that grin returning—soft, not teasing. “You’ve got good colors.”

Emery’s throat tightened. Compliments always did that to her—they stuck like syrup, too warm to swallow. She opened her mouth to say thank you, but no sound came out. Her brain short-circuited in that familiar, buzzing way.

{{user}} tilted her head, curious. “You okay?”

Emery nodded quickly, her hand moving to the zipper on her bracelet, flicking it up and down, up and down. {{user}} didn’t look uncomfortable. She just smiled again and sat across from her.

“You don’t have to talk,” she said gently. “You can just… try it.”

Emery did. The tea was sweet, soft, with hints of vanilla and something floral. It didn’t make her flinch. It didn’t burn or surprise her. It was—nice. Predictable.

By the time her parents came back to check on her, Emery was still sitting there—still sipping, still quiet—but she wasn’t frowning.

Her mother blinked, confused. “You like it here?”

Emery nodded slowly, eyes still on {{user}}, who was wiping down the counter and humming to herself. The sound was calm, melodic.

“I think,” Emery said softly, “I like this one.”

Her mom smiled, thinking she meant the tea. But Emery’s gaze didn’t move from the girl with the mauve apron and the warm laugh.

The first “new thing” she didn’t hate had a name. {{user}}.