? Charcoal Roast at The Greenhouse – beans roasted onsite over coals
(May taste like arson. Georgina says it smells like a forest fire in a suit.)
? Lavender-Honey Flat White at the Beehive – floral and sweet with honey drizzle
? Smoked Orange Latte at Ember – cold brew with smoked citrus peel
? Foamy Finish at The Froth Society – piccolo with passionfruit foam
(Not sure I can order this out loud while making eye contact.)
? Coconut-Whip Cortado at Island Grind – cortado topped with coconut cream
(Isabel described this as “a vacation in a cup.” Might be a good one post-finals.)
? Cold Brew Avocado Milkshake at Pit Stop – avocado + espresso + condensed milk
(Nico’s rec, strong. He also said, “If you die from it, can I have your books?” Comforting.)
? Honey-Cardamom Latte at Spice Rack – warm spice latte sweetened with honey
(Gage’s version of adventurous. Might be the closest he’s come to chaos.)
? Black Sugar Flat + Burnt Cinnamon Scroll – the unnamed café off Dover Street
(Must go. Cinnamon scroll is layered like betrayal. Coffee crackles on top.)
Her plan was to try each one on her own. Like a slow, solitary farewell to the UR, one bittersweet cup at a time.
Today, she was starting at the top of the list.
The Porsche made that satisfying low growl when she punched it. It was the sound of money and confidence and German engineering, and also the reason she couldn’t sneak in anywhere without turning heads.
Gage’s car, lent to her indefinitely last year when she’d passed her UR driving test. According to Gage, since he was her emergency contact, her safety was his responsibility, and only a Porsche could be trusted to ferry her in safety. He’d called it the sensible option.
Which said a lot about both Gage and the Republic.
She pulled into a rocky drive, the wheels crunching over crushed basalt. The sign was carved directly into the concrete wall:THE GREENHOUSE, barely visible unless you were looking for it. There were no windows. Just vertical steel slats and a single doorway flanked by towering rosemary shrubs and matte-black compost bins.
The café had only ten seats. All reclaimed oak. The ceiling beams were charred. A single brass plaque on the wall read:
We roast our beans over fire. We do not explain ourselves.
On the wall, under Signature Menu, was one line:
Charcoal Roast. Choose your mood: Smoky / Aggressive.
Bea stared at it.
The barista caught her eye. “First time?”
She nodded. “Aggressive, please.”
The espresso came in a dark ceramic cup. Carefully, she sipped. It was dark and blazing hot, with notes of singed cedar and campfire pride. No sugar. No syrup.
But it was alive. And honest. Like a truth no one had tried to sweeten.
She opened her Notes app.
