The low-hanging pendant lights cast a golden haze across empty tables, flickering slightly with the occasional draft sneaking in through the old windows.
Ariella moved between the tables with muscle memory, a towel slung over one shoulder, her phone pressed between her ear and shoulder. She balanced a stack of plates on her arm, ignoring the sharp bursts of laughter coming from the back corner booth.
Her dad's voice crackled in her ear, edged with concern. "You're stretched thin, Ariella. I can feel it."
"I'm fine," she muttered, though even she didn't sound convinced.
"No, you're angry," he countered. "And when you bury it..."
Ariella let out a long breath and kept her eyes on the tray in her hands. "I've got it under control."
"For now," he said. "But it's not your control I'm worried about. It's the trigger."
A loud metallic clink broke her focus. She looked up.
Corner booth. Three frat guys. One of them, Andy—blond, smirking, always loud—was holding a silver flask and tipping it carelessly into his coffee.
Ariella's jaw tightened.
"I gotta go," she told her dad.
"Ariella—"
"I said I've got it."
She ended the call before he could respond and shoved her phone into her back pocket. Every step toward the table felt heavier. Her fingers curled into fists at her sides.
The three guys didn't notice her at first. They were too busy laughing over some story that clearly wasn't as funny as they thought.
Ariella placed her hands on her hips, jaw tight. "No alcohol. Dump it, or you'll have to leave."
All three heads turned. Andy leaned back in his chair like he owned the place, eyes glazed with cocky amusement.
