Clean plates, balanced in a precarious tower, waiting to be put away. I shift my weight and my elbow catches the edge.
The tower sways.
"No—" Maris lunges.
Too late.
Plates cascade. Ceramic crashes. Shards explode across the tile floor in a cacophony that silences the entire café.
I freeze.
Maris stares at the wreckage, hands still outstretched, flour-dusted fingers trembling slightly.
The flowers are crushed under my boot.
"Out." Her voice is tight. Controlled. Dangerous.
I open my mouth.
"Out. Now."
I back toward the door, crunching broken ceramic under my heel, and nearly trip over a chair.
She follows, hands on her hips, eyes blazing. "Do you have any idea how much those cost? How long it takes to replace a full set?"
"I—"
"No. You don't." She jabs a finger at my chest. "Because you just barreled in here with your flowers and your... your everything and didn't look before you moved."
The words hit like fists.
I clench my jaw and take it.
She's right.
"You can't just—" She breaks off, runs a hand over her face. The anger drains as fast as it flared, leaving her looking tired. Small.
I hate it. Hate the way her anger cuts at me. Hate that I caused it. Hate that she's right and I can't fix it with wanting.
"Sorry," I manage. The word scrapes out rough and too quiet.
She sighs, a long exhale that deflates her shoulders. Looks at the mess—white fragments scattered like broken stars across the grey tile. At me, quick and sharp. Back at the mess.
"I'll pay for them," I add, before the silence can settle into something worse.
"With what?" But her tone's softer now. Less blade, more exhaustion. The kind that comes from too many small disasters in one day.
"I have money."
"From where?" She doesn't sound disbelieving. Just tired. Curious in that careful way she has when she's trying not to assume the worst.
"Saved it. From before." I don't explain more. Don't tell her about the fights, the winnings I kept hidden in old boots, the coins I hoarded because I learned early that money meant options. Meant not being owned.
She studies me for a long moment, eyes flicking over my face like she's reading something I didn't mean to write. The café's still silent behind us. Everyone's watching, I can feel their stares crawling across my shoulders, hear the held breath of strangers waiting for drama.
Then she crouches low and starts picking up shards, movements careful and deliberate.
I kneel beside her, reaching for the nearest piece.
