"Dev!" Tyler slides onto a stool. "The usual. And whatever Mel wants."
"Surprise me," Melissa says, leaning on the counter. "Something sweet."
"Got it." I start Tyler's drink, the complicated caramel thing Robin invented that has seven steps and shouldn't work but does.
"So," Melissa says, in the tone of someone who thinks they're being casual. "Tyler showed me a picture of your boyfriend. From the birthday party."
"Mm-hm." I'm pulling a shot.
"He's like... significantly older than you."
Tyler shifts on his stool. "Mel —"
"What? I'm just saying. He's what, thirty-five?"
"Thirty-two." The espresso machine hisses. I keep my eyes on the pour.
"Thirty-two. And he's a shifter?" She wrinkles her nose. Not mean, exactly. More like she's working through a math problem that doesn't balance. "I don't know. I thought Tyler'sfriends would have better taste. Like, no offense, but older and a shifter? That's a lot."
The café goes quiet. Not dramatically. There are maybe five people here. But the ambient noise seems to thin. Robin, restocking pastries, goes still. Tyler closes his eyes like he already knows what's coming.
I don't look up.
I finish the shot. Steam the milk. Build Melissa's drink with the same precision I give every drink. The tamp, the pour, the swirl. My hands are steady. My face is pleasant.
Then I reach under the counter. Take out the cayenne pepper. And add two generous tablespoons to her caramel latte.
Lid on. Counter. Smile.
"One sweet surprise," I say. "On the house."
Melissa takes it. Sips.
Her face goes through four stages: confusion, recognition, agony, and the specific betrayal of someone who's just been served revenge at 180 degrees.
"Oh my GOD —" She's coughing, grabbing Tyler's water. "What — what is IN —"
"Cayenne," I say pleasantly. "It's our spicy special."
"We don't have a spicy special," Robin murmurs from the pastry case, biting his fist.
Tyler is not even trying to contain it. He's laughing so hard he's gripping the counter, tears streaming, the kind of full-body catastrophic laughter that makes strangers laugh just from proximity.
Melissa stares at me, face red from capsaicin and fury. "That was —"
"The spicy special," I repeat, still smiling. "Tyler, your usual's up."
Melissa grabs Tyler's drink, and looks like she wants to say something cutting but can't manage it through the burning. She settles for a glare that I absorb with the pleasant blankness of a person who has been glared at by professionals.
"Come on, Mel," Tyler says, still wiping his eyes. "Let's sit down."
"He POISONED me."
"He seasoned you. There's a difference. Come on."
They take a table. Melissa still coughing, Tyler still grinning. Once she's in the bathroom splashing water on her face, Tyler comes back to the counter alone.
"Dude," he says. "That was ruthless."