Stopping in front of the square wooden table, Malia let go of Orla's arm and beamed at Cyran, who was dressed impeccably in a fitted dark green button-down shirt rolled up to his elbows, paired with tailored black slacks. His black wavy hair was styled neatly, framing his delicate features. He greeted them with a wide smile, his eyes briefly lingering on each of them in turn.
"Glad you both made it," Cyran said. "I thought I'd have to call Malia again to make sure she didn't lose you, Orla."
Orla smirked, crossing her arms as she slid into one of the chairs. "I'm here, aren't I? Though I have to say, this place is way too cheerful for what I'm assuming is going to be an intense conversation."
Malia nudged Orla's shoulder lightly before taking a seat next to her. "I think it's perfect. The food will make everything easier to digest—literally and emotionally."
