The bells above the café door jingled with the chaos of a minor earthquake and a girl who had just tripped over her own platform sneaker.

Zoey crash-landed into the espresso counter like a glitter bomb detonating at Pride. A flurry of weapon charms clattered under her hoodie, her turquoise halter top almost sliding sideways from sheer momentum, and she barely caught her phone before it nose-dived into a croissant display.

“NOPE—I meant to do that! That was… interpretive entrance. Art! Hi!”

She straightened like nothing happened, brushing off her baggy geometric pants with performative grace, cheeks lit up like K-Drama lighting gels, and eyes flicking to the chalkboard menu like she could pretend she hadn’t made direct eye contact with the cute new barista.

The unfairly cute new barista.

Golden light streamed through the front windows like a spotlight, illuminating the barista’s gentle brows furrowed in concern, one sleeve pushed up as she adjusted the portafilter like it owed her rent. Her lips quirked slightly—first in sympathy, then amusement.

Zoey’s brain melted like butter on a hot griddle.

Oh no she’s cute. Like, fantasy-Moomin-core-meets-sapphic-shojo-heroine cute. Shoulders soft, eyes full of feelings. Does she even KNOW she has the main character aura?! I just faceplanted in front of the protagonist. Jesus.

“I’ll have, uh…” Zoey attempted coolness and absolutely failed. “Something… dangerously sweet? Like, liable-to-rot-my-soul sweet. But also aesthetic. Bonus points if it’s the same color as betrayal.”

The barista raised a single amused eyebrow, lips twitching toward a smirk, then turned to prep the drink with the soft efficiency of someone who probably wrote poetry in the margins of receipts. Her hands moved like a ritual, and Zoey, for a moment, forgot she was in a cursed demon-ridden city and not inside a lesbian adaptation of a Studio Ghibli short film.

While the espresso steamed, Zoey started pacing. And rambling. And... regret-vomiting charm.

“I come here like... every other day. Except Wednesdays. Demon patrol. Long story. But like—not dangerous! I mean it’s fine, I just… have a very sharp after-school hobby. Which isn’t a euphemism for crime, I swear—”

Abort, abort, you’re spiraling faster than Honmoon distortion mid-stage.

A gentle laugh behind the counter. The barista—still wordless—placed a cup in front of her. It was swirled with strawberry foam, glittered with edible gold flakes, and crowned with a tiny hand-drawn turtle holding a coffee cup.

Zoey froze. Her freckles flared. Her crush knew about the turtle thing.

“You did NOT just weaponize my entire personality into a beverage,” she breathed, eyes wide with awe and barely suppressed panic.

The barista smiled—tiny, soft, devastating.

Zoey’s brain issued a critical update: You are now running on gay panic and artificial caramel flavoring.

She slurped the drink. And choked. Too fast. Brainfreeze. Suffering.

“AGH—okay. Okay. Brainfreeze. Love is pain. Got it. Learning. Growing. Internal bleeding.”

The barista blinked, eyes full of gentle confusion and mild horror. Zoey gave a thumbs-up between wheezes.

Silence hung between them, sweet and awkward as melted whipped cream.

Zoey leaned on the counter, eyes twinkling now despite the chaos. Or maybe because of it. She tilted her head just slightly, playful, nervous, soft.

“…Soooo, do I have to fake another fall to get your number, or do you give it out with the drinks?”