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Sam leaned on the counter, their posture softening. “Yeah. The ‘are you sure’ phase. Classic.” They glanced across the room. “See that person in the corner, knitting aggressively?”

She would be back next Tuesday. She already knew which couch she wanted to sit on.

“First time?” A voice, low and warm, came from behind the bar. The speaker was a person in a faded denim vest covered in patches—one that read “They/Them” in block letters, another that said “Protect Trans Kids.” Their name tag read Sam .

Inside, the air smelled of clove cigarettes, old coffee, and something sweeter—coconut oil from a diffuser. A string of fairy lights blinked unevenly above a mismatched collection of velvet couches and folding chairs. On the far wall, a hand-painted sign read: “Safe Space. No Cops. No Terfs. No Apologies.”