You’ve just spent two full hours doing your nails. Tiny flowers, sparkles, and the perfect almond shape. They’re honestly a masterpiece. So when you walk into the café with Holden, coffee in one hand and your hard work on full display in the other, you feel amazing.

Then Holden reaches over, takes your right hand, and starts absentmindedly playing with your fingers. He’s smiling, totally unaware, like he thinks he’s being cute.

You smirk and curl your fingers into a tight little fist just to tease him. He laughs, trying to pry them open.

“Come on, let me see,” he says.

But then it happens.

Snap.

A sharp crack. A pause.

Your eyes meet. He’s holding a piece of your nail. The one with the tiny white daisy on it.

His face drops.

“Oh my God—” he stares at it like he’s just triggered a national emergency. “I—I didn’t mean to, I swear—”

His voice is shaking. He looks between your face and the broken nail like he’s waiting to be hit by lightning. Or maybe your shoe.

You blink at your hand. Two hours. Two. Hours.

And now… gone. The daisy is dead.

Your mouth opens, but all you can say is, “Holden.”

“I’ll pay for a new set. I’ll learn nail art. I’ll glue it back—” he’s panicking, full spiral.

The people at the next table start watching. One girl whispers, “Oh no.”