The next morning, Celine strutted into the café like she was walking a runway. Chin up, ponytail bouncing, and a smile so smug it could power the espresso machine.

“Why do you look like you just won the lottery?” asked Marites, the manager, without looking up from the pastry case.

Celine leaned in close, dropping her voice to a whisper. “Because I survived noodles with him and didn’t throw chopsticks at his head.”

Marites gave her a side-eye so sharp it could cut glass. “So… it ...