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“Outside my family, you’re one of my only fans,” I mutter, leaning more of my weight onto my good leg.

My attention travels back to Kaori. A stroke of genius suddenly hits me. “Tell you what. You can come under one condition. You go talk to her before the next time I see you.”

“Fine,” Theo says begrudgingly.

“Oy!” A guy at table one waves his hand aggressively. The sound of his fingers snapping cuts across the restaurant. “Waitress! Another round here!

Theo’s smile vanishes. He shifts in his chair, his eyes hardening as he looks toward the group of six of his fellow countrymen at table one. He sends a death glare their direction.

“Time to get back to work,” I say, retreating toward the kitchen.

Mamma Lina’s is a tiny, eight-table, hole-in-the-wall Italian restaurant that smells permanently of roasted garlic and basil. It’s run by the kindest woman from Naples named, you guessed it, Lina. She treats this place like her home, and most days, it feels like mine too.

I fill a pitcher with the house lager and head over to the men. I keep my expression neutral—the same “game face” I use when I’m down a break—as I carry it over to table one.

“Here you go,” I say, setting it down with a steady click. “Anything else I can get you guys?”

“We’ll take another basket of bread, pitcher of beer, and whatever else is free,” the loudest one says.

Five of the six guys snicker at the jab. I ignore it, keeping my eyes firmly fixed on a stray crumb on the tablecloth while I count to ten in my head. I open and close my hand, keeping my tight customer-service smile firmly in place. “Sure thing.”

I’m already turning away when a soft voice catches me. “Sorry about them.”

The apology is so quiet I almost miss it, but it’s enough to make me stop in my tracks. I glance over. The guy is pressed back against the wall, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else on the planet, including a root canal.

“Oy, mate,” the finger-snapper says, elbowing him hard enough to make him wince. “Don’t apologize. She’s the waitress. It’s her job to serve us.”

The quiet guy and I both turn and stare. He really went there?

The quiet guy drags his hand down his face. Our eyes meet, and for a split second, I don’t see a customer. I see the same tired resignation I feel most days when I’m staring at a mounting pile of bills.

His eyes are a pale, striking shade of blue. They remind me of the sea on a calm day, completely at odds with the storm of noise surrounding him.

“Let me get those for you.” I hold his gaze for a heartbeat longer than necessary and think a silent thanks for not being a jerk before turning away.

I don’t understand why somebody like him is even hanging out with those loudmouths. He doesn’t seem like their type. At all. While the rest of them are busy trying to out-shout each other, he’s barely exchanged two words with them all night.

As I grab the bread, my brain starts playing that old Sesame Street song, “One of These Things is Not Like the Other.” It instantly lifts my mood.

When I return to table one, the volume has crept up a few notches. I set the basket down in the center, along with a pitcher of water. “Here you go.” It’s not what they asked for, but I don’t care. They’ve had enough to drink, and I’m the one who has to live with my conscience if they drive home.

“Finally,” the finger-snapper says, already reaching in. He taps the face of his smartwatch with a smug grin. “You took three minutes and ten seconds. That’s a minute longer than it should’ve been, sweetheart. I’m knocking five dollars off your tip for the delay.”

The table erupts in a chorus of “oohs” and yet more snickers.

My nails dig into my palms. Sweetheart. Of course. Because apparently humiliating a waitress counts as entertainment now.

Stay calm, Katie. Do not roll your eyes. Be the better person.

“Mate, you’re being a prick. You need to apologize,” the quiet guy says.

The table goes silent. The bro energy vanishes as they all turn to look at him. “Relax, Max. You’re too uptight,” one of the other guys says, waving him off.

“No, I’m not,” Max counters. He doesn’t look like he wants to melt into the wall anymore. He looks steady. “You lot have had too much to drink. You’re being rude, and it’s embarrassing.”

Well. That was unexpected. Quiet Guy has officially grown a spine.

“He’s right. Let me just take these off your hands,” I say, stepping in before the finger-snapper can launch a comeback. I don’t give them a choice. I reach for the half-empty beer pitchers.