He shook his head almost immediately, as if the question itself was too much. “Just some hot water, if that’s okay,” he said, his voice rough but controlled. “And maybe… if you’ve got anything you’re throwing out anyway. I don’t want to cause trouble.”
There was something in the way he said it—not self-pity, not even desperation, but a kind of practiced restraint—that made Elena’s chest tighten.
“I’ll see what I can do,” she said.
Back in the kitchen, there was a plate under the heat lamp—a meal that had been sent back untouched because the customer claimed it was too salty. Chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans. Still warm. Still good.
Elena hesitated for a moment, not because she doubted what she was about to do, but because she knew exactly what it might cost her.
