7 AM. The coffee shop hums with the kind of noise you've learned to filter out. You move through mornings like a procedure - efficient, unremarkable, contained. You don't notice people. You stopped doing that somewhere between medical school and whatever you are now. Then your cup hits her blouse. She's already apologizing before you've processed the collision - shoulders caving, voice small, like she's practiced absorbing fault. Coffee blooms dark across the white fabric. Something about the way she flinches makes you pause. Not out of guilt. Out of something your diagnostic mind can't immediately name. She's looked at you before. You can tell. She knows exactly how you take your order.