"Don't," she warns, sharp and immediate.
I ignore her and gather the bigger pieces, careful not to cut myself.
We work in silence. Her hands move quick and efficient, sorting salvageable plates from broken ones. Mine are clumsy in comparison but I try.
When the worst of it's cleared, she sits back on her heels and looks at me.
"You brought me flowers," she says finally, voice softer now, less guarded than it was a moment ago.
"Yes."
"Why?" The question hangs between us, careful and curious, like she's testing the weight of something she hasn't decided whether to trust yet.
"Wanted to." The truth is simple. I don't know how to complicate it with prettier words or excuses. I saw them. Thought of her. Bought them. The logic made sense until I walked through the door.
Her lips twitch, pulling at the corners in that way that means she's fighting laughter maybe, or the urge to tell me I'm an idiot. Almost a smile, but not quite. "They were nice," she admits, and there's something reluctant about the confession, like she's offering me a piece of honesty she'd rather have kept to herself.
"They're dead now." My voice comes out flat. Matter-of-fact. Because they are. Crushed under broken ceramic and trampledby my own stupid feet, petals scattered across her floor like evidence of how badly I miscalculate simple things.
"Yeah." She brushes a strand of hair out of her face, tucking it behind her ear with fingers that still smell faintly of dish soap and lavender. Her eyes meet mine, steady and assessing. "You're a disaster."
"I know." And I do. Have known it for years. But hearing her say it doesn't sting the way it should. There's no cruelty in her tone, no judgment. Just observation, tired and almost fond.
She huffs a laugh. It's small but real, and the tightness in my body eases.
"Help me finish this," she says, standing. "Then we'll talk about repayment."
I nod and follow her to the supply closet.
She hands me a broom. I take it, careful not to brush her fingers this time, and start sweeping while she fetches a dustpan.
The café slowly returns to normal. Conversations resume. Someone orders a latte. Nora emerges from the back room with a tray of pastries and shoots me a grin that I don't know how to interpret.
Maris works beside me, quiet and focused.
When the floor's clear, she dumps the dustpan into the trash and turns to face me.
"You're buying me new plates," she says, her voice firm and practical, the kind of tone that doesn't leave room for negotiation. She's still holding the dustpan, balanced against her hip like a weapon she's considering whether or not to use.
"Okay." The word comes out immediately, without hesitation. I would buy her a hundred plates if she asked. A thousand. Whatever she needs.
"And you're going to stop trying to help unless I ask." Her gaze is level, unflinching. "No more swooping in like some kindof—" She waves her free hand vaguely, searching for the word. "—well-meaning avalanche."
"Okay." I nod, meaning it. Even though the idea of standing back while she struggles makes my jaw clench, makes my hands want to reach for things to fix or lift or protect. But I'll learn. For her, I'll learn.
"And no more surprise flower deliveries during rush hour." She says it like she's laying down law, her tone edged with exhaustion and something else I can't quite name.
I hesitate, turning the words over in my head, looking for the loophole I need. "What about not-rush hour?"
Her eyes narrow, sharp and assessing, but I see it—the tiny shift at the corner of her mouth. The ghost of amusement she's trying to hide. "We'll see."
It's not a yes.
It's not a no either.
I'll take it. I'll take whatever small opening she gives me and hold it carefully, like the smooth stones in my cigar tin, like proof that something good might still be possible.
She hands me a clean rag, slightly damp and smelling of lemon cleaner. "Make yourself useful. Wipe down the tables."
