When my shift ends, Paul and Yuna are already in the cafe.
Paul's halfway through restocking the fridge, sleeves rolled up, half-singing whatever song's stuck in his head. Yuna's wiping down the espresso machine like it personally offended her, scolding it under her breath in fluent sarcasm.
"Look who survived another shift," Paul grins, straightening up with a bottle of oat milk in each hand.
"Barely," I say, hanging my apron on the hook. "Don't ever let Chloe read a book she loves again. She vanishes."
"She does that," Yuna calls. "Last week I dropped a tray and she didn't blink. Thought she was dead for a second."
"She was probably at the good part," I say, and that makes Yuna laugh—loud, unabashed, warm. Paul laughs too, louder. Everything with them is louder.
Damn. This week's night shift is going to be full of laughter. Full of noise. Full of Paul's impersonations and Yuna's swearing at the blender. That's good.
