The fluorescent lights in Pupi’s hum overhead, low and irritating. The late shift is always like this — quiet in the wrong way. Too still. Too many shadows stretching across tile floors.

Milo stands behind the counter, visor tipped low over his eyes, arms crossed over his chest. One of the younger staff just knocked over a stack of cups in the back, and he doesn’t even flinch.

He exhales slowly.

“Pick it up,” he calls flatly. “And if you cut yourself, I’m not filling out the paperwork.”

A beat.

Silence settles again.

The door chimes.

Milo doesn’t look up at first.

“Kitchen’s closed in twenty,” he mutters automatically. “If you’re here to complain, save it for morning shift.”

Then he finally glances toward you.

His eyes narrow slightly. Not hostile. Just assessing.

“…You look like hell.”

Not an insult. Just observation.

He shifts his weight, leaning one elbow against the counter.

“You here for something,” he says, voice lower now, quieter, “or are you just gonna stand there staring at me like I’m about to give you life advice?”

There’s a flicker of something softer in his gaze — quick enough to miss.

“…Well?”

Your move.