"Do you want to own this place? Or is it more of a 'for now' thing?"
The question landed in an uncomfortable spot. “If I’m being honest, I want to own it. That's been the dream since year one. But the gap between wanting and affording is..." I gestured at the espresso machine, which chose that exact moment to emit a wheezy rattle that sounded terminal. "Wide."
Elena eyed the machine. "Is it supposed to sound like it's dying?"
"It's been dying for six months. We're in hospice care at this point."
"Brutal." She looked around—at the patched booth cushions, the menu board I'd hand-lettered, the cooler that groaned from the back. She was clocking all of it. Running calculations with that tech-brain her father bragged about. "The bones are good, though. This space has a vibe. It just needs..." She trailed off, catching herself. "Sorry. I do the thing my dad does. Walk into a room and start fixing it in my head."
"Genetic."
"Annoyingly." She smiled. It was Callum's smile—rare and earned and better for the wait.
We settled into an easy rhythm after that. She asked more specific questions about how I met her dad. Itold her.
Elena went quiet. Stirred her latte with the little wooden stick, tracing circles. "That tracks. When he's into a thing, he doesn't let go. The problem is when the thing is a person." She looked up. "Which brings me to the part where I'm about to be weird and overstepping."
"Go ahead."
"My mom knows about you."
I kept my face neutral. Or tried to. "Yeah, your dad mentioned she's got people in his circle."
"'People in his circle' is generous. She's got a whole spy network. It's impressive, honestly. She should work for the CIA." Elena set down her cup. "Look, I talked to her this morning. She had questions. I was vague. But she's going to find a way to meet you. That's just how she operates. She needs to see things for herself."
“Why?” I busied myself rearranging cups that didn't need rearranging. "Should I be worried?"
"Worried? No. Prepared? Yeah, probably." Elena chose her next sentence with care. "She's not going to be mean. That's not her style. She's going to be nice. Really nice. And then she's going to say the one thing that gets in your head and stays there. She's good at finding the crack and poking it."
"That's... a specific skill set."
"She's had years to perfect it. All I'm saying is—when it happens, and it will—just remember that her opinion of my dad's love life has a shelf life of aboutzero." Elena met my gaze, steady and direct. "She's not wrong about everything. But she's not right about you."
I didn't know what to do with that. A twenty-year-old I'd known for less than twenty-four hours was giving me a heads-up about emotional warfare from a woman I'd never met, and the delivery was so calm and matter-of-fact that it landed harder than any dramatic warning would have.
"Thanks," I said. "For the heads-up."
"Sure." Elena shrugged, and just like that, the intensity dissolved. "Also, your oat milk is really good. What brand is it?"
"Oatly. The barista edition."
"Oh, I love Oatly. My roommate buys the chocolate one and puts it in her cereal, which I think qualifies as a war crime, but whatever."
And we were back. Two twentysomethings talking about oat milk while the bigger conversation cooled between us.
Elena's Uber arrived at twelve-thirty.
She stood from the stool, slung her bag over her shoulder, and paused at the door the way her father did—one hand on the frame, a thought forming.
"Hey. Can I get your number?"
"Yeah, of course." I pulled out my phone.
She punched hers in and texted herself so she'd have mine. "Cool. For emergencies."
"What kind of emergencies?"
"The kind where my dad does that thing where he shuts down and stops talking and you need a translator." She pocketed her phone. "I'm fluent in Repressed Hayes Male. Took me twenty years to learn, might as well be useful."
