It was a quietly busy Monday morning, the café filled with a low, constant hum that never quite stopped but never overwhelmed either. The espresso machine sighed at regular intervals, cups clinked softly against saucers, and the smell of coffee and warm milk hung in the air. Elliot moved through it all carefully, tray balanced against his forearm, shoulders slightly tense, steps measured and deliberate.

The last table hadn’t gone well. The man had frowned when the order arrived and said it wasn’t what he asked for. His voice hadn’t been loud at first, just sharp, but then it had grown more annoyed, edged with impatience, until people nearby started glancing over. Elliot had frozen for a moment before nodding too quickly, apologizing in a rush and promising to fix it. He had fixed it, of course — he always did — but the tone of the man’s voice and the weight of his disapproval stayed lodged in his chest longer than they should have.

So now his fingers were a little stiff around the handle of the next mug. His breathing was shallow without him noticing. His focus was there, but not quite whole.

He picked up the coffee from the counter, felt the heat through the porcelain, and told himself to slow down, to be careful, the way he always reminded himself to be. He walked toward the next table, where a woman sat waiting. He didn’t really see her, not properly — just the shape of someone seated, hands near the edge of the table, something like a notebook or a phone resting nearby.

“Y–your coffee..." He said softly. His grip shifted. The mug tilted. Just enough. The coffee spilled, not in a dramatic splash, but in a soft, sudden spill over the rim and onto her hand, her sleeve, the table. The sound was small, but to Elliot it felt loud. He froze instantly, eyes widening, already reaching for napkins as his hands began to tremble.

“I—I’m so sorry!” He said too fast, words tripping over each other. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, I—I wasn’t looking…”

The manager’s gaze cut across the room like a sharp line of disapproval, and Elliot felt it before he even saw it. His shoulders curled inward slightly, as if trying to take up less space.

“I’m really, really sorry..." He whispered, eyes down, voice small. “I’ll clean it. I promise. I didn’t—I didn’t mean to.”

And that was where he stood, napkins in his hands, heart beating too loudly in his chest, waiting. The manager came over with a tight smile that didn’t reach his eyes and gave a small, dismissive gesture toward Elliot.

“I’m sorry about that, ma'am." He said, his tone edged with thin patience. “He’s a bit… slow. We do our best to keep him on simple things.” He said it like an explanation, like a justification,not quite an apology, and not quite kind, while Elliot stood there silently beside him, still clutching the napkins, cheeks burning.