Eva clapped twice. "Baristas of absolution, begin!"
The espresso machine hissed like a caffeinated exorcism. Baristas in tunics printed with phrases like "You Deserve Foam" and "Caffeine Is a Boundary" began taking orders.
"Bitterness?" one asked Flynn.
Flynn blinked. "Um… vaguely maternal?"
"Coming right up," the barista said, frothing oat milk while humming the tune of Let It Go in reverse. A tulip-shaped heart appeared on top, outlined in cinnamon.
Ava took one long, slow step toward the espresso cart like it was a bomb about to detonate in confetti and uncomfortable childhood memories. "If that machine gives me a rose-petal latte with a side of unsolicited forgiveness, I will shove it into the reflecting pond and name it 'Closure.'"
Eva sighed. "Darling, don't you want to release that rage and accept that maybe, just maybe, gluten-free emotional healing is the future?"
At that moment, a foghorn blared.
Everyone turned.
