The day after the Heartstring Hibiscus debacle, Harmony Café smelled like regrets and fresh rose petals.

Jo stood behind the counter, holding a spray bottle labeled Emotion Remover (Extra Strength) and staring at a lipstick print that refused to come off the espresso machine.

Mira shuffled in wearing pajama pants, two different shoes, and a hoodie that read Steep Happens. Her hair was a frizzy cloud of shame. “Morning,” she mumbled.

Jo didn’t look up. “The foam spelled out ‘I still think about you’ on someone’s cappuccino. Again.”

Mira whimpered.

The previous day had been a lot. Heartstring Hibiscus had turned the café into a confessional booth crossed with a rom-com flash mob. People had proposed, confessed, sobbed, and sung unsolicited serenades. Someone even played the harp, but no one knew where it came from.

Everyone was now dealing with the fallout.

Becca, the former manager of Bean Me Up and now bookstore manager, refused to make eye contact with the anyone she had serenaded in couplets. The teenage couple who had confessed to each other that they didn’t like the other’s social media kept ordering separately and sitting at opposite ends of the patio. A regular named Doug stared into his cold brew like it held the answers to the universe or at least his ex-wife’s Wi-Fi password.

Matteo, normally caffeine personified, was curled up in a window seat with a hot water bottle and a book titled Espresso Yourself: Emotional Regulation for the Highly Brewed. “I told a regular her latte art that I made looked like my childhood trauma,” he muttered, flipping a page. “And then I cried into her oat milk foam.”

Clorvex arrived mid-mope, wearing sunglasses indoors and holding a croissant like a stress toy. “What did I miss?” he asked. “Anything still emotionally flammable?”

Mira groaned and slid under the counter.

Jo served a customer a cold brew and said gently, “Don’t worry. No hibiscus today. Just vibes and passive-aggressive playlists.”

Arriving dramatically backlit by sunlight she refused to acknowledge, the Queen of the Hollow Moon asked, “Did I miss the peak emotional chaos again?! This is why I hate mortal scheduling. You’re all so linear.”

“We’ve transitioned into the recovery arc,” Jo deadpanned.

The Queen sighed. “How dull. Someone bring me a tragedy to flirt with.”

Mira poked her head up. “I made a new blend. It’s grounding. I hope.”

Clorvex read the chalkboard aloud. “‘Cold Brew Closure: for post-confession hangovers and romantic regret.’ Sounds promising.”

The Queen sniffed it. “Smells like shame and citrus. I approve.”

Customers trickled in. Slowly, cautiously. Some blushed. Some avoided eye contact. A few handed over apology pastries. The espresso machine, still emotionally charged, hissed every time someone hesitated to order.

By mid-afternoon, things started to normalize. Cedar Grove’s version of normal anyway.

Jo wiped down the counter and sighed. “Next time we release a tea that weaponizes feelings, let’s put a warning on the mug.”

Mira nodded solemnly. “Tea is powerful. I need to respect that. And maybe not steep it near love candles while listening to bump and grind playlists.”

From across the café, Doug raised his cold brew in salute. “To feeling too much.”

Jo clinked her mug against his. “And drinking just enough.”

The café hummed gently. No spontaneous poetry. No weeping. Just coffee, tea, and the sweet silence of post-chaos recovery.

For now.