Breakfast arrives, and this time the waitress doesn't linger.
Lila hesitates.
Then takes a bite.
"You didn't seem surprised," she says, eyes on her plate.
"By what?"
"By Mara."
"I am rarely surprised by people repeating their patterns."
She looks up. "She hates me."
"She fears what she does not understand."
"That's not better."
"No," I agree. "It isn't."
She eats another bite, watching me over the rim of her coffee mug.
"You hurt her."
"No."
Her eyebrow lifts.
"I demonstrated consequence."
A faint breath leaves her — not quite laughter.
"You didn't have to step in."
"Yes," I say calmly. "I did."
Her gaze sharpens. "Because she belongs to you?"
"No."
Silence stretches between us.
The diner hums with morning life — silverware clinking, low conversation, the hiss of the
