“Then you’re in the wrong place,” she said.
That should have been the end of it. In a different setting, maybe it would have been. But the man laughed, louder this time, and tightened his grip, yanking the apron string loose with a sharp pull that snapped the knot open. The fabric slipped into his hand, and he held it up like he’d just won something.
“Take it off if you want a tip,” he said, leaning closer, his voice dropping just enough to carry weight. “Unless you’re too scared.”
The room didn’t go silent all at once. It faded into it, piece by piece—the clink of silverware stopping mid-motion, the low hum of conversation trailing off, the cook in the back pausing just long enough for the absence of noise to become noticeable. People looked without looking, eyes flicking up and away again, caught between the instinct to witness and the desire not to be involved.
Mara didn’t react the way he expected. She didn’t step back, didn’t raise her voice, didn’t reach for the apron. Instead, she let her hands rest lightly at her sides, her posture unchanged, as if the moment hadn’t quite landed yet.
“You should give that back,” she said, her tone almost conversational.
