You pulled into the first place that looked open—a sleek, modern cafe called The Grind, all exposed brick and industrial lighting. It was cool and quiet inside, the hum of a coffee grinder the only sound. You ordered a turkey club and a large black coffee to go.

The barista handed you the paper cup, hot and full to the brim. You turned, balancing the sandwich bag in your other hand, and took one step toward the glass door.

That’s when you walked directly into someone coming in.

The impact was solid, unyielding. Your coffee erupted from the sip-hole, a scalding arc that soaked the front of your shirt and splashed across the crisp, pale linen of the man’s button-down.