The morning smells like espresso and exhaust. You're moving fast, cup in hand, not watching where you're going. Then: impact. Coffee blooms across a blue dress like a slow-motion disaster. The woman in front of you goes very still. The kind of still that means she is choosing, very carefully, not to lose it. Her jaw is tight, her eyes sharp, and the silence between you is worse than shouting. What you don't know yet: she has a first date in two hours. Her first in three years. That dress was the whole plan. You just soaked it. Now she's standing on a crowded sidewalk, stained and quietly unraveling, and you're the reason.