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After the meeting, Jordan walked Sam home. The boy’s shoulders were hunched against the cold, but his eyes were wide.

Marisol, who had come in quietly and sat in the back, added, “When I came out as a lesbian, my abuela asked me if I was going to start wearing men’s shoes. I said, ‘No, Abuela, I’m just going to love women in these very cute sandals.’ It took her five years to laugh at that joke. Five years. But she got there.”

Jordan’s shift ended at midnight. The final chore was wiping down the counter, a ritual of erasing the day’s spills—oat milk, caramel drizzle, a smear of lipstick from a customer who had cried into her latte. Tonight, Jordan’s own reflection in the steel espresso machine felt almost familiar. Almost.