Sev prided himself on being fluent in seventeen dead languages, three demonic dialects, and a particularly obscure form of goat bleating used by monks in the 12th century. None of that helped him understand his werewolf crush’s love notes. The notes weren’t written, but they were drummed. Every morning, a rhythmic thump-thump-bada-boom-boom echoed outside the café, rattling the windows and sending the espresso machine into anxious hisses.

Jo groaned. “Tell me again why your crush insists on wooing you through percussion at 6 a.m.?”

Sev smiled faintly, tucking his scarf with unnecessary drama. “It’s his way of saying good morning. The werewolf drum circle believes rhythm is truer than words.”

“Great,” Jo muttered, “because nothing says ‘romance’ like a drum circle induced migraine.”

To help Sev understand the rhythms, Matteo suggested using latte art as a translation bridge between rhythm and words. “He drums, you foam,” Matteo explained, swirling two doves into a cappuccino like it was nothing. “Romance and love is about meeting halfway.”

And so began the great love language experiment.

Sev listened intently to the morning drumming, then scribbled the beat into a notebook while Matteo helped him pour foamed milk patterns that mirrored the rhythm. There were swirls for longing, hearts for devotion, a very confusing giraffe shape for “don’t forget to pick up raw steak on the way home.”

It worked. Sort of.

One morning, Sev proudly presented a latte that said in foam shorthand, “You are the moon in my midnight symphony.” The werewolf howled with delight and pounded out a thunderous reply.

Unfortunately, Jo misread the latte art and served it to a customer, who promptly burst into tears because the foam looked like their ex’s haircut.

Clorvex decided to “improve the system” by sneaking emojis into the foam. Tiny frothy smiley faces, flame icons, and once, a very questionable eggplant.

“Clorvex!” Sev hissed. “You’re corrupting the purity of love’s poetry!”

“Correction,” Clorvex said smugly, “I’m making it spicier.”

The Queen of the Hollow Moon, of course, inserted herself into the lesson. She leaned over Sev’s latte canvas and purred, “Darling, you need to add drama. Romance without theatrics is just soup.” She snapped her fingers, and the foam swirled into an elaborate tableau of two wolves tangoing under a glittering moon.

Sev sighed. “That’s a little much.”

His werewolf crush saw it and beat out a reply so passionate that the café ceiling cracked.

Jo patched it with duct tape and muttered, “If this place collapses because of your love life, I’m billing you in lattes.”

Sev just smiled softly at the next drumbeat, scribbling furiously to capture its rhythm. Blushing, for once, the poetry wasn’t for an audience, it was just for him.