"I DON'T KNOW WHO you think you're trying to fool here, but that is not Perrier," the dark-haired woman says in a clipped tone, thin lips pressed together, unimpressed. Her eyes narrow.

I blink. "I'm sorry, what? That- that is Perrier."

She rolls her eyes as if responding is a waste of precious breath, and I have to take a quick survey of the restaurant to make that sure she's talking to me, and not an actual toddler. Not that the annoyance on her face can make the distinction. When I continue to stand there, silent and absolutely bewildered, she heaves a sigh.

"Are you trying to imply I don't know what Perrier tastes like?" She arches a pointed brow.

"Of course not," I blurt out, eyes widening. "I just- with all due respect, I poured the drink straight from the bottle at your table. And the bottle is still right next to your glass. That is, um, that's Perrier."

When I gesture to the bottle of Perrier that is, for everyone to see, sitting dutifully next to her glass, she clicks her tongue. I wonder if it's her hair drawn so tightly into the bun piled on her head, or maybe an after-effect of the Botox that has given her temporary blindness. Any other reasonable explanation escapes me.

"I don't know what kind of operation you're running here, but I know what Perrier tastes like, and this is not Perrier," she says, low and sharp, venom in her eyes as they lock onto mine. "Now, I don't want to speak to your manager, but-"

"I will definitely grab you another unopened bottle and bring it here," I quickly reassure her, hands formed into fists by my sides. The thought of Christian's steely eyes draws shivers down my spine, still recovering from the accidentally-shattering-an-entire-bottle-of-Cristal incident, name self-explanatory. "And I'd like to sincerely apologize for this upset."

She leans back, apparently satisfied with this answer, and flashes me a predatory look. "And it's ruined my meal."

The polite smile is frozen on my face and only enduring through sheer will-power alone. "Of course, of course, I'll see what I can do about getting some of it compensated, and free dessert as well. For the pain we've caused. My apologies, again," I manage through gritted teeth.

Suddenly I was all types of on board with whatever Karl Marx had to say. The bourgeoisie can suck a dick.

"At the minimum," she adds, brows climbing up her chemically-smoothed forehead in a challenge.

I have to turn on my heel and stalk away to stop myself from going absolutely mental on this sixty-five-year-old woman that I'm absolutely positive I could best in a physical confrontation if necessary. Despite finally warming up to the POS system, the table numbers, and the natural flow of work at Viva La Breakfast, the clientele still makes me want to legitimately orchestrate a revolution.

And that includes both current and past patrons, honestly. Not that thinking about particular dark-haired and brown-eyed men is helping calm me down at all.

There's a groan climbing up my throat when I return to the server station, pressing the woman's table with a little more force than necessary on the screen. I barely even notice when Malia, the other server working, slides in behind me until she's peeking over my shoulder.

"I totally knew that she was gonna pull something from the second she walked in," she says, sighing. "You should've heard her last week- she was throwing a fit because she couldn't bring in her little rat of a dog."

I snort, turning to face the dark-haired girl. "Thank god she thinks our operation is only pouring non-Perrier water into Perrier bottles and not a total front for money laundering. She is really keeping our city safe."

"There is no way she can be that much a total bitch and not get off on it sexually. There has to be a sexual component." Malia laughs, all dimples and red lips.

I grin, and it's one of the first in a couple of days but almost always promised on a shift with her. If anything, Malia's almost constant commentary on the upscale patrons of Viva is the only thing getting me through this shift, not that I'm particularly looking forward to it to ending, either. There's a text lingering on my phone from Mark, updating me that I can just drop off the key on the kitchen counter when I finally pack up my things.

I'd barely swept through the apartment since I'd made my, yet again, dramatic exit, and I genuinely did not feel like making my not-so-triumphant return.

As I'm punching in the discount for the lady's smoked salmon and steamed eggs, Malia's leaning against the counter and eyeing the restaurant. I shoot her a confused glance when she hums.

"Speaking of sexy," she murmurs, smirking. "You've got a new arrival in your section."

I roll my eyes, tightening the apron that's slung around my waist. "I don't care what they look like as long as they don't accuse me of forgery."

Malia laughs, and it distracts me until I step around the corner, and then my heart instantly plummets.

It's with a sharp gasp and wide eyes that I scramble back into the corner of the station, cursing under my breath. Malia fixes me with a weird look, frowning. "You okay?"

"Can you take that table?" I all but beg, hands clasped together as I add a, "Please?"

She arches a brow, skeptical. "Bad tipper? Or bad ex-boyfriend?"

I pause for a moment, because none of those truly encompass the weird dance that Noel and I have, or had, I guess. The non-relationship of our relationship doesn't really seem to fit in the cute little boxes she offers- I could only wish.

"Uhh, the second," I haphazard, not even bothering to try to explain the semantics. "I'd seriously owe you so much. He's a fantastic tipper- no stress, it'll be great."

She taps her chin thoughtfully.

"I'll pay you five dollars- ten dollars!" I insist, my voice growing vaguely more hysterical. "I'll cover any of your shifts!"

When we lock eyes, she loses her composure and dissolves into laughter, waving me off. "Oh, stop being a fool. You just gotta say ex and I got you." She flashes me a grin.

When her mop of curly, dark hair vanishes from my sight, I can finally take a much-needed breath. My pulse is still thudding in my ears, a reminder that only a few feet away is Noel, who I haven't seen since the day before, when he'd had the audacity to call me a nobody. There's been complete radio silence on both ends- to both my disdain and pleasure.

I swallow my nerves and swipe up a bottle of Perrier.

Despite my pointed attempts not to peer in Noel's direction, his dark eyes scorching into me as I make an obvious detour around his booth to get to table six, the fateful home of Perrier-not-Perrier lady. And his burning gaze refuses to let up as I make a painfully stilted demonstration of me opening the Perrier bottle and pouring her another glass, which she takes a sip from with contempt written all over her face.

It passes, at least, and she waves me away to get her the free dessert. All with Noel burning holes into the back of my head.

The blatantly ignoring tactic doesn't prove all that successful, as Malia mentions that Noel specifically asks for me, and despite my almost palpable avoidance, he stays. Half an hour later and he's still stubbornly tucked away into the booth, two coffee refills down and nearing a third judging by the way he's been taking sips every few moments. Or at least, from what I can see in my peripherals.

As I jab my finger into the system screen, ordering a coffee with a little too much force, Malia's leaning against the counter. Her arms are folded over her chest, and when I peek over there's a frown tugging down the corners of her mouth.

"Do you want me to call the police or something? Is he stalking you, Vika?" she asks, concern creasing her brow.

I heave a sigh. "No, no, he isn't- I'll talk to him. Don't worry about it, I got it covered."

She hums as if she isn't entirely convinced, and internally, I agree. Still, I square my shoulders and settle my nerves, turning towards Noel's table to find him unsurprisingly gazing back behind those thick frames. For a moment I'm called back to all those times I was basically shrieking for his attention, for him to look back at me, just to catch a glimpse of myself in those dark pupils, but now I'm wishing for anything but.

Despite his lingering presence, he looks genuinely shocked when I slide into the seat opposite of him. I pointedly smooth out my face to not give him any wrong impressions, such as I want to be here, that I want to talk to him, and that I am okay with what he said. Because I am not, and there's a trickle of irritation at the base of my spine when it plays back in my mind.

Nobody.

"You're freaking out Malia. She thinks you're a stalker and she wants to call the cops on you," I say, fixing him with a deadpan.

His eyes widen. "I don't- what? I'm not- I'm not a stalker. I just wanted to talk to you. Vika, I just-"

"Most people would probably send a text," I cut him off, voice cold. "Not sure if you knew that thing," I gesture to his phone, "It can actually send messages to other people's phone. Most people do that instead of, you know, stalking someone's place of work."

"I'm not-" he protests, but then when he meets my gaze, quickly seems to realise it's a losing battle. The bags under his eyes are a little darker than usual, now that I can see him up close. His hair a touch more dishevelled, unsurprising, as he cards his hands through it again. "I didn't know what to say."

I blink. "So instead you came here to say nothing? Solid plan. Great job. You can leave now."

There's something strikingly defenseless in his dark brown eyes, uncharacteristic to all I've ever seen of him, and I can almost feel something waver inside of me, drawn by the vulnerability. The frustrated sigh he gives, more to himself than anything, has me wanting to reach over and soothe it, but I don't.

I steel my resolve instead.

"I wanted to apologize to you directly. You have to understand I didn't mean it the way it came out. You're not a nobody. I didn't- I wasn't thinking when I said it," he explains, voice soft, trailing off at the end as he studies my face. "I'm sorry, Vika."

There's a beat of quiet, where his apology is still in the air, sinks in, crumbles into dust.

"I don't have to understand anything," I say, looking away. "You said what you said, and whatever you meant, it doesn't matter. Who were we kidding, anyway? It's better we just left it where it ended off. Let's not pretend it was going to last after the wedding."

His brows pull in as he pauses. "It wasn't." The end of his sentence lilts up, as if in question, and searches for some sort of reply but doesn't find anything. He doesn't follow it up, and I don't either. The answer had always been written out, clear as crystal, branded all over everything we ever were. Temporary, momentary, fleeting.

"It wasn't," I echo, ignoring the way it presses against my chest. "Bye, Noel."

I slip out of the booth, ignoring the prickle at my eyes and the catch in my throat. There's a burning that's crawling up from my stomach, but I shove it back down. Just as I grit my teeth, though, there's a grip on my wrist that's pulling me back.

"Vika, wait-"

"What the fuck do you want, Noel?" I snap, cheeks warm, hands shaking as I rip my wrist from his grasp. I pin him with a glare. He shrinks away from it, as if it's physically burning him. "And don't say you don't know, because I don't either, so maybe you should just leave."

This seems to be the one thing that resonates, because he nods. With his head down and a murmur of something I don't quite catch, he's grabbing his jacket and leaving a couple of bills on the table, and then he's gone.

There's a moment where I'm not sure how to feel, the mess of emotions too conflicted to even begin sorting through, but when I turn to see Christian with his arms crossed over his chest, a fresh wave of anxiety crashes into me. A quick survey of the restaurant has me realising that my little outburst hadn't been as intimate as I'd thought, with a few customers still shooting curious glances in my direction. I draw a deep breath and trudge back towards the server's station.

"My office," Christian demands, voice rough, before he's off.

Malia shoots me a sympathetic look, nose wrinkled. "Babe, I'm so sorry," she murmurs. "One of the cooks is going for a Starbucks run, I'll grab you something."

I mumble a quick thanks before begrudgingly following after Christian into his office, shoving down all my hysterical instincts, realizing that I'm screwing up one of the few things actually going right in my life- and now I'm going to be fired.

Christian's already settled in his chair, hands folded in front of him on the desk that separates us. I settle into the seat opposite of him, and while I'm usually comforted by his light blue eyes or the salt and pepper of his hair, there's a tickle of nausea in the back of my throat. Which probably wouldn't help my not getting fired case all that much.

Maybe I could blame the flu.

"I'm so sorry," I burst out before he can say anything, voice coming out more like a squeak than anything. "I'm truly, genuinely, I'm so sorry, Christian. I didn't mean to make a scene."

He heaves a sigh, emphasizing the lines on his face. "Vika, it's important to always be professional, even if this is only a restaurant. It's about image."

"I agree!" I add too quickly. "I just had- it was a lapse in judgement. I'm really sorry."

He pauses for a moment, scanning my face, and then his shoulders drop. "I don't want to let you go- you've picked up on everything at this point, with only a few, minor incidents, and you're not a bad worker. But you can't do this sort of thing, especially with customers. You can't let your personal issues reflect badly on the restaurant."

I swallow hard, and flex my jaw, an uncomfortable heat crawling all over my body. "I promise, I won't, Christian. I won't let you down. I'll do anything- I love this job, I want to work here, please."

There's a frown still etched on his face. "You're done for today- cool your head. Come back in next shift with this resolved. And Vika, we don't deal with third chances here."

"Thank you! Thank you so much, Christian! Nothing like this will ever happen again!" I promise, nodding my head frantically as I pick myself up and restraining my urge to tackle him into a hug. "I'll make sure of it."

He shoots me a small smile and then gestures towards the door, which I take as my exit and escape. There's a dangerous mix of emotions bubbling up inside of me, threatening to rupture into the chaos that's mirrored outside, but I swallow it down as I finish up with my tables. Then, with a quick goodbye to Malia who's passing along my coffee with a warm hug, I'm stumbling out the doors of Viva la Breakfast onto the bustling street.

And if I wipe a few stray tears away with my sleeve on the bus ride home, well, no one's there to see it. No one that matters, anyway.