Three middle-aged tourists eating gelato glance up. A couple at the next table stops mid-bite of something croissant-adjacent. One guy in a woven fedora actually lowers his sunglasses to get a better look.
Right. The car. The heels. The whole“I may or may not be married to a Bond villain”energy I’m apparently radiating now.
I square my shoulders and pretend not to care.
Because there she is.
Elena sitting in the café window like she owns the damn planet. Or just Tokyo. Same thing.
She waves a hand with black chrome nails and grins wide enough to qualify as a public disturbance.
And dear God, she’s had a full-blown anime girl transformation. Her hair isicy lavender, curled into twin space buns, and her outfit looks like Sailor Moon joined a biker gang. There’s a mesh corset, oversized combat boots, and what I can only assume is a dragon embroidered across her thigh.
She looks insane. And exactly like home.
I walk in, and she doesn’t wait. She launches from her chair and tackles me with a hug, squealing like we’re in a J-drama reunion episode.
“Babe, hot chick,” she gasps. “You’re alive!”
“I think so.”
She pulls back, scans me up and down with mock horror, then grabs my chin like she’s inspecting a prize horse.
“Oh, my God. Oh, my actual God.”
“What?”
“You got laid.”
“I did not—”
“You gotlaid laid.Bella, you’reglowing. You’re like a postpartum sunbeam.”
My eyes dart around the café, which is unfortunatelynotempty.
It’s small and local, full of people trying very hard to look like they didn’t hear that. The barista freezes mid-pour. The couple two tables over—bickering over a gluten-free muffin—go completely silent. The girl with the laptop stops typing. The guy in the beret sketching something looks up, like he’s just found the plot twist in his indie graphic novel.
I hiss, “Oh God, shut up!”
Too late. Elena flips her hair back like she’s on a wind machine, grabs both my hands dramatically, and lowers her voiceexactly half a decibel.
“I stand by my diagnosis,” she whispers—still loudly enough for the plants to blush. “Bitch, don’t lie to me. You’ve got post-sex clarity face and the kind of skin that says male attention and expensive body oil were involved.”
“I swear to God, I will throw you through the window.”
“Please. You’d miss me. And you’re not denying it.”
I groan, rubbing my temples. “It’s just moisturizer. And four hours of sleep.”
She grins like a goblin who found a stash of gold. “Nope. That’sdick-glow, and I will die on this hill.”
I shush her again, glaring. “People are listening.”
“Let them. You’re a cautionary tale and a vision.”
I finally slide into the seat across from her, mostly to stop myself from disassociating into the wallpaper. She flops into her chair like it’s a beanbag and waves at the waiter like she owns him.
“Oat milk latte, extra ice, and whatever’s making my friend here so unreasonably hot and hostile,” she tells him, then turnsback to me like we didn’t just derail the ambiance of the entire café.
