Amina let out a soft sigh, placing a small hand on my elbow. “They need tea, too.”

I nodded solemnly. “Yeah, they do.”

Jamal reached for the sugar packet holder and lobbed one at Tiffany’s forehead. Tiffany snatched the next one before it hit her, crumpled it in her fist, and threw it back.

“Oh, no,” Amina groaned, dramatically sliding under the table to escape whatever storm of sugar packets was about to rain down.

Jamal looked smug. “You’re here, though.”

Tiffany clenched her jaw. “I shouldn’t be.”

“But you are.”

She pointed a perfectly manicured finger at him, eyes blazing. “Because I thought Blake was dying.”

“Not dying,” Jamal said coolly, “just chronically miserable.”

Tiffany glanced at me then, her expression shifting from irritation to something else as she took in my appearance. “Wait. Why do you look like shit?”

I glared.

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re paler than usual.”

“Why, thank you.”

“Have you eaten?”

“Yes.”

“What did you eat?”

“Tea!” Amina shouted from under the table. “Get him tea!”

Just when I was about to launch myself out of the booth and disappear into the depths of the nearest alleyway, Jamal’s mom swept in—soft but firm, her apron tied around her waist, her hair covered with a taupe hijab that matched the warmth in her eyes. She wasn’t a tall woman, but she carried the kind of authority that made even Jamal sit up a little straighter.

“Jamal,” she called, her voice firm as she approached, swatting her son lightly on the back of the head. “Enough,” she scolded. “You’re disturbing my customers.”

Jamal made a face. “Mom, we are your customers.”

“Then behave, or I will make you wash dishes.”

Amina immediately reappeared from under the table like she hadn’t just abandoned me to fend for myself. “Mama,” she said. “We were just discussing the great healing properties of tea.”

Tiffany snorted, but she had the sense not to open her mouth.

Jamal’s mom turned to me, her eyes scanning my face, and I already knew what was coming.

“You look tired, habibi.”

I sighed. “I’ve been informed.”

Tiffany huffed. “That’s what I said⁠—”

Jamal chimed in, “He’s just brooding extra hard tod⁠—”

His mom held up a hand, silencing both of them instantly. Then she looked at me again, softer this time. “Come help me.”

“What?” I asked, unable to hide my confusion.

“Come help me,” she repeated. “Unless you’re too tired.”

I hesitated, caught between the exhaustion gnawing at me and the warmth in her voice that made it hard to refuse.

She hummed, watching me carefully. “You know,” she said, her voice quiet but thoughtful, “you remind me of my brother.”

I frowned.

“He was the same way,” she said with a sigh, her gaze distant, as if she were lost in a memory. “Always carrying too much. Always holding it all in.”

I didn’t say anything.