I meet Celeste at an Asian dessert café on Octavia Street, far away from both our places. After what happened the last time Celeste and I met up at a coffeehouse, I know better than to pick somewhere out of convenience.

Today, Celeste is wearing mahogany brown frames that, along with her sleek, formfitting gray turtleneck sweater dress, make her look like some ingenious, sexy architect rather than the photographer she really is.

I barely resist the urge to circle my arm around her waist as we enter the building.

Despite only opening fifteen minutes ago, the café is already crowded with couples and college students. Its interior is a cute white and pink, with lightbulbs encased in clear spheres hanging down from the ceiling. Along with the small houseplants on gold shelves and multicolored plastic chairs, the place looks adorable enough to be in a K-drama. Even the menu on the wall is highly aesthetically pleasing, with a pink backdrop and white all-caps letters.

“Wow,” I say, looking around in wonder. “This café is even prettier than it looked in the pictures.”

“Yeah, thanks for suggesting it, Gem,” Celeste replies, giving me a small smile.

Her shoulders are tense, and so are mine.

I clear my throat. “We should find a seat and order first. You know. Before we talk.”

“Right.”

I choose a table by the wall that has white-framed pictures of various Asian desserts.

“I know you don’t like traditional American brunch,” I say. “So I only suggested places that were a bit more unique.”

Celeste’s eyes widen. She looks away, her cheeks turning a little red. “Thanks.”

“No problem! I love dessert places, too, so…” I clear my throat again and pick up the clipboard menu from the table.

I’m instantly overwhelmed by the countless varieties of shaved ice, milk tea drinks, and baked goods. It takes me a few minutes to come to a decision.

“I think I’ll go with the milk tea bingsu,” I say.

“And I’ll get the mango sticky rice crepe,” Celeste replies with only a cursory glance at the menu.

I bite the inside of my cheek. Celeste has always loved mangoes.

Although very cute, the café is unfortunately a bit cramped, with small gaps between the tables. From where I’m sitting with my back against the wall, I can’t get out unless Celeste moves first.

“Here,” Celeste says, noticing my predicament. “I’ll go order for us.”

I hand her the menu, and she goes up to the register to order our food. With her back turned toward me, I follow the lines of her shoulders, down to her hourglass figure, and then to much lower than I’d normally be comfortable staring.