The café hummed with quiet conversation, the hiss of steaming milk, and the rhythmic tapping of a pen against paper. Jasper sat in his usual corner, posture stiff, a notebook open in front of him, though he had yet to write a word. Across from him, Milo slouched in his chair, stirring his coffee as though the meaning of life lay somewhere at the bottom of the cup.

Jasper cleared his throat. "I wanted to talk to you about something serious."

Milo didn't look up. "Hmm?"

"About your writing."

That got his attention. Milo blinked, set his spoon down, and gave him a half-smile. "Oh yeah, it’s going great! I haven’t killed anyone unnecessarily for, like, two whole chapters now."

Jasper pressed his fingers against the bridge of his nose. "That’s actually what I wanted to bring up."

Milo’s grin widened. "That I haven’t killed anyone?"

"No," Jasper said, dragging his hand down his face. "That you want to kill everyone at any given moment."

Milo exhaled dramatically, as if Jasper had just asked him to climb Mount Everest barefoot. "Look, do you have any idea how hard it is? Every time I write a scene, every time I introduce a character, I have to physically stop myself from blowing them up. Do you understand this struggle?"

Jasper leveled him with a flat stare. "Yes. Because I read your last draft. Your protagonist’s best friend tripped on a loose shoelace and detonated."

Milo nodded solemnly. "I foreshadowed that."

"You wrote one sentence about him ‘looking nervous around gas lines’ and then, thirty pages later—boom!" Jasper spread his hands in mock-explosion.

Milo took a slow sip of coffee. "A slow burn."

"That’s not what slow burn means."

"Tomato, tomahto."

Jasper sighed, resisting the urge to knock over Milo’s cup just to wipe that smug look off his face. "Can you just... not explode anyone for one full book?"

Milo recoiled as if Jasper had suggested he give up oxygen. "A whole book?"

"Yes."

Milo shook his head. "You’re asking me to be sane for an entire narrative arc."

"That is exactly what I’m asking."

Milo clutched his chest as though wounded. "This is an attack on my creative freedom."

"Your creative freedom led to a romance novel where, at the emotional climax, the love interest gets struck by a rogue artillery shell."

Milo gasped. "You felt something when you read that, though, didn’t you?"

Jasper’s expression darkened. "Mostly despair."

"See? That’s an emotion!"

"That’s not the point."

"Emotions are good for storytelling!"

Jasper rubbed his temples. "Not when the emotions are just ‘why did this happen?!’"

Milo lifted a finger. "Surprise and betrayal are emotions too."

Jasper groaned. "You are impossible."

Milo beamed. "I try."

"Just—let your characters breathe for a moment. Let them grow, let them evolve—"

"And then explode?"

"No!"

Milo propped his elbow on the table, considering. "Okay, what if instead of killing them, I just have something near them explode?"

Jasper narrowed his eyes. "I hate that I feel like this is progress."

Milo snapped his fingers. "Ooh! What if it’s a metaphorical explosion? Like an emotional one?"

"Yes!" Jasper said, leaning forward. "That’s good!"

"Right! Like, in the middle of a heated argument, someone shouts, ‘I can’t take this anymore!’ and then—"

"Yes?"

Milo smirked. "And then the actual building they’re in detonates."

Jasper slumped forward onto the table.

Milo took another sip of coffee, completely unfazed. "I’m keeping that. That’s gold."

Jasper, his forehead still resting against the wood, mumbled, "I give up."

"Hey, don’t give up. Giving up is for—"

"If you say ‘people who don’t explode things,’ I swear to—"

"People who don’t explode things."

Jasper lifted his head just enough to glare.

Milo grinned and clinked his mug against Jasper’s. "Love these chats."