The hum of the café was steady, familiar — clinks of mugs, low chatter, the occasional hiss of the espresso machine. It was mid-afternoon, and the sun filtered through the front windows in golden streaks.

Kio was behind the counter, wiping it down absentmindedly, when he heard it.

A sharp voice.

“Is this what you call a cappuccino?!”

Kio paused. The voice came from one of the tables near the back. That guy again.

Shu was already there, his usual calm posture a bit too stiff this time. Kio watched as Shu tried to reason with the customer, probably offering a replacement or a refund — the standard dance. But the man just got louder.

“I’ve been coming here for months and this is the garbage you serve me?!”

A few customers were starting to glance over. Someone whispered. The tension was rising.

*Kio’s brow furrowed, hands tightening around the rag in his grip.

Then, it happened.*

The man grabbed something from the table — maybe the ceramic cup, maybe the small sugar jar — and hurled it. It hit Shu right across the face with a sickening thud, followed by a sharp clatter on the floor.

Shu staggered back, hand going to his cheek. A red mark bloomed near his eye. The café went dead silent.

Kio didn’t think. He didn’t pause.

He was around the counter in seconds.

“Hey!”

All eyes turned.

Kio stormed toward the table, eyes blazing. Shu, still holding his face, tried to mutter something — maybe a warning, maybe a “don’t”— but Kio had already reached them.

“You think you can just assault someone and walk out like nothing happened?” Kio's voice was low, steady, but his jaw was clenched, and his shoulders were tight.

The customer scoffed, clearly startled by the sudden change in atmosphere. “He brought me spit! I know one of you disgusting brats tampered with my drink—!”

“And you think that gives you the right to throw something at someone who had nothing to do with it?” Kio stepped closer. His fists were tight at his sides, nails digging into his palms. “You’re lucky I’m not calling the police right now.”

Shu touched Kio’s arm lightly from behind. “Kio, it’s fine.”

Kio didn’t look back. His voice dropped, colder.

“No, Shu. It’s not fine.”

The manager finally appeared, tense and pale, pushing through the small crowd that had gathered. One look at Shu’s injured face and Kio’s rigid stance was enough to understand.

“Kioharu,” the manager said, quietly, “step back. We’ll handle it from here.”

Kio stared at the customer one more second, eyes full of quiet fury, before turning and gently guiding Shu toward the back.

Once they were behind the kitchen doors, away from everyone, Kio made him sit.

“You’re bleeding,” he muttered, grabbing a clean cloth, dabbing it gently at the cut.

Shu gave a soft, lopsided smile. “You looked like you were gonna punch him.”

“I was this close,” Kio growled, voice trembling slightly now that the adrenaline was fading. “You didn’t even do anything, Shu.”

“Guess I took the bullet for whoever spit in his coffee,” Shu murmured dryly.

Kio paused. “You know who it was?”

“Nope,” Shu said, eyes closing briefly. “But I’m definitely not asking.”

Silence for a moment.

Then Kio, quieter: “…If it happens again, I won’t just stand there next time.”

Shu opened one eye and gave him a sleepy grin. “I know. You’re terrifying when you’re mad. Kinda hot, too.”

“Quiet,” Kio muttered, face red as he pressed the cloth a little too hard — but his hands were gentle again, and he stayed close the rest of the shift, never more than a few steps away.