The way you say it matters. Not apologetic. Not aggressive. Just whole.
He studies you longer than politeness allows. Then, with a strange little half smile that never reaches his eyes, he says, “Bring the Riesling.”
“Of course.”
You turn before he can add anything else.
Only when you reach the service station beside the kitchen doors do you allow your pulse to become visible. It is running fast, beating at your throat and wrists with enough force to make the silver wine key in your apron pocket tap softly against your hip. Behind you, the room resumes its polished hum, though table twelve remains wrapped in a tension sharp enough to taste.
Chef Baptiste sees your face at once.
“Well?” he asks.
You glance toward the dining room. “He ordered in German to humiliate me.”
Baptiste’s thick brows pull together.
“And?”
