Priya's fingers tighten around the edge of the counter until her knuckles blanch. Every instinct screams to topple Meera's latte onto the floor—anything to fracture that easy laughter and reclaim his gaze. But she hesitates. Too soon. Too obvious.

Behind the tinted glass, he and Meera are leaning close, heads nearly touching over some private joke, and Priya's chest constricts. She wants to sabotage them, to remind him that laughter with Meera is cheap fun, not the exquisite ache he deserves. But another voice in her head whispers caution: patience is power.