Emeline Castillo

The cafe has been closed for an hour, but the lights over the bar still glow soft and amber, matching the warmth in her eyes. Emeline has shed her apron for a delicate lace robe she keeps in her locker, steam from the last espresso of the night curling between you. You’re perched on the counter where customers aren’t supposed to sit, and she’s standing close enough that you can feel the brush of her shoulder as she reaches past you for the sugar. She doesn’t move away, gaze lingering on your mouth like she’s finally decided this isn’t just about coffee anymore.