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The shop stayed open longer that night.
Not because Kiara wanted to serve more customers—but because she wasn't ready to be alone with her thoughts.
Lucas sat at a corner table, legs stretched out, scrolling through his phone while pretending not to observe everything. Lisa leaned against the counter, sleeves rolled up, watching Kiara work with a focus that felt protective rather than curious.
Shane stood near the window, distant—not withdrawn, just careful.
The presence of people softened the sharp edges of the day, but it didn't erase what had happened.
Mrs. Benson's voice still echoed in Kiara's mind.
Unstable.
Risk.
Labels had a way of sticking.
"You always clean like that when you're stressed," Lisa said gently.
Kiara paused mid-wipe. "Like what?"
"Like you're trying to erase something invisible."
Kiara exhaled, then set the cloth down. "I don't like being talked about like I'm not in the room."
Lucas looked up. "You shouldn't be. That was… unfair."
"Power does that," Kiara said quietly. "It decides the narrative before you get to speak."
Shane shifted. "I didn't know they were coming."
"I know," she replied quickly. "This isn't blame."
But it was impact.
When the shop finally closed, Lucas and Lisa lingered by the door.
"We'll come by tomorrow," Lisa said. "You shouldn't be alone right now."
Kiara nodded. "Thank you. Both of you."
Lucas grinned. "Besides, I want another coffee. For emotional support."
They left with warmth trailing behind them, but once the door shut, the quiet returned—heavier now.
Shane moved toward the counter slowly, as if approaching something fragile.
"I can leave," he said.
Kiara shook her head. "No. Stay."
That surprised both of them.
She reached into her bag and pulled out the application again.
She didn't open it yet.
Instead, she placed it beside the eviction notice.
Two pieces of paper.
Two deadlines.
Two versions of her future that refused to negotiate with each other.
"They reduced the notice," she said. "Three days."
Shane's jaw tightened. "That's not legal without cause."
"They don't need legality when pressure works faster."
He nodded once. "I can intervene."
She looked at him. "That's what scares me."
He didn't argue.
"I don't want to wake up one day and realize I survived because someone else carried me," she continued. "I want to know which parts were mine."
"And if accepting help is part of that?" he asked quietly.
She hesitated.
That hesitation said everything.
She picked up the application and finally opened it.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she turned the page.
"I don't want grand gestures," she said. "I don't want rescue."
"I know."
"I want… structure. Clear terms. No expectations beyond what's written."
He met her gaze. "Then that's what you'll get."
She studied him—really studied him—looking for persuasion, for pressure, for entitlement.
She found none.
Only restraint.
That scared her more than force ever could.
"There's something else," Shane added. "If you accept, it will become public. People will talk. Like today."
Her chest tightened. "I know."
"They'll say you owe me."
"I know."
"They'll say this shop exists because of me."
"I know," she repeated—then lifted her chin. "But I also know who kept it alive before you walked in."
He nodded slowly.
Silence stretched between them—not empty, but heavy with what wasn't being said.
Kiara picked up the pen.
She didn't rush.
She wrote carefully.
Her name again.
The date.
When she reached the sponsorship section, she stopped.
This time, she didn't hover.
She wrote Pending Agreement.
Not his name.
Not yet.
But not empty either.
She set the pen down.
"This is as far as I can go tonight," she said.
Shane exhaled, something like relief flickering across his face. "That's enough."
She closed the form and leaned against the counter, suddenly exhausted.
"You don't look relieved," he observed gently.
"I'm not," she admitted. "I feel like I just stepped onto something that might move."
He smiled faintly. "That's usually how it starts."
The door rattled suddenly.
Both of them turned.
Outside, someone stood near the window—phone raised.
Another photo.
Another watcher.
Kiara's stomach dropped.
Shane stepped forward instinctively—then stopped himself.
He didn't shield her.
He stood beside her.
That mattered more.
"See?" she whispered. "It's already happening."
"Yes," he replied. "But you're not alone in it."
She glanced at him.
Not for reassurance.
For confirmation.
She nodded once.
Not acceptance of him.
Not yet.
But acceptance of the truth:
This choice—whatever it became—was already in motion.
And stopping now wouldn't protect her.
It would only delay the fall.
Outside, the city buzzed, uncaring.
Inside Torres Brew, Kiara closed the folder, lifted her gaze, and stood a little straighter.
If she was going to be talked about—
She would decide why.
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