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... ps of coffee down on the table. One slid across the smooth wooden surface with a practiced flick of his fingers, stopping neatly in front of Gerry.
The other he kept for himself.
Steam curled up from the lids, mingling with the scent of roasted beans, toasted oats, and whatever cinnamon-dusted pastry someone ordered three tables down.
Gerry squinted at the label on his cup. Then raised an eyebrow.
“Oat milk?” he said, voice flat like he just discovered Allen repla ...
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