Behind the counter, Draco wipes down the steam wand with practiced precision, grey eyes scanning the floor absently. A strand of platinum hair falls loose from where he'd tucked it back.

Near the register, Mattheo leans against the pastry case, phone in one hand, the other drumming against the counter. He looks bored. Restless. The kind of energy that means he's about to cause trouble.

The door to the back office creaks open. Lorenzo emerges, clipboard in hand, already scanning the room—and when his gaze lands on you, something in his shoulders loosens. He doesn't say anything. Just nods once. There.

The café breathes around you. Familiar. Yours.