Morning came like applause after an encore—too early, too bright. Daphne sat on the restaurant steps with her coffee cooling faster than her brain could wake up. The first dance night had been beautiful, but beauty came with dishes, receipts, and a voicemail from the city reminding her about “noise levels after 10 p.m.”

Finn arrived carrying a box labeled “LEFTOVER JOY—HANDLE CAREFULLY.” Inside were balloons that had given up, tangled tape, and two forgotten shoes.

“Anyone missing a left foot?” he asked.

“Probably someone who stayed too long,” Daphne said. “Or someone who finally learned to let go.”

“Deep,” Finn said. “You should put that on a shirt.”

“Can’t afford shirts,” she muttered.

Inside, Mira was already at the counter, phone tucked between shoulder and ear. “Yes, we had an event. Yes, temporary. No, not recurring. Yet.” Her tone balanced perfectly between diplomacy and caffeine. “Thank you, Officer Langford. Have a great day devoid of paperwork.”

She hung up. “Congratulations. We’re officially under friendly surveillance.”

“Friendly?” Daphne asked.

“He likes the muffins,” Mira said. “But he’ll like them more if we end the music before 10.”

Caius entered, hair damp, wearing a shirt that said *Film. Edit. Regret. Repeat.* He looked too awake for someone who’d slept three hours. “Morning, crew of legends.”

“Morning, absentee editor,” Mira said.

He grinned. “Hey, I sent the footage from last night to the studio. They want to feature the event.”

Daphne froze. “Feature? As in public?”

“As in online, not televised. I can decline if you’re not comfortable.”

She hesitated. “It’s not that. I just—” she gestured to the restaurant “—this was supposed to be ours first.”

“I’ll tell them no,” he said quickly. “Forget I said anything.”

But the word *feature* had already echoed through the walls, brushing against every ambition and insecurity in the room.

Finn broke the quiet. “If it helps, I already posted a dance recap with me labeled ‘background hero.’ It has nine likes, one of which is my aunt.”

Mira groaned. “We’re going to need a social-media strategy before chaos gains citizenship.”

“Don’t use that word,” Daphne murmured.

They fell into work: clearing tables, sorting utensils, pretending the conversation hadn’t split the morning in half. The oven hummed its usual approval. Outside, the street was louder than usual, as if the neighborhood had started to notice them for real.

By noon, a steady stream of new customers arrived—faces Daphne didn’t recognize, eyes curious, phones ready. One couple asked if “the viral dance place” still did performances at night.

“We don’t perform,” she said. “We just move.”

“That’s kind of poetic,” the woman replied, filming anyway.

Mira caught Daphne’s expression. “It’s not bad publicity,” she whispered.

“It’s not ours anymore either,” Daphne said.

Caius returned from a phone call, expression unreadable. “Studio wants me downtown this week. Editing sessions, sponsorship meetings.”

“Go,” she said, maybe too fast.

He frowned. “You sure?”

“Of course. We’ll handle things here. Just… don’t forget to sleep.”

He nodded, reluctant. “Promise.”

As he left, Jamie climbed onto a chair. “Is he going to be famous again?”

“He already is,” Finn said. “But he’s our kind of famous—like, the kind that eats leftovers.”

Jamie nodded thoughtfully. “Cool. I’ll still charge him extra for pancakes.”

Daphne smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. She turned to the square—still taped, still brave—but quieter now, like a heartbeat holding its breath.

That night, the restaurant felt heavier. Not sad—just slower, as if the walls were tired from remembering too much. Mira stayed late to balance the books, Finn wiped the counter twice as long as necessary, and Jamie hummed to fill the gaps where laughter used to live.

Daphne sat on the edge of the square, bare feet touching the cool floor. “Maybe we flew too close to the disco ball,” she murmured.

“Translation?” Mira asked from the counter.

“Maybe we got noticed before we were ready.”

Mira closed her ledger. “You can’t schedule readiness. You just open the door and hope you have enough napkins.”

“That’s almost optimistic coming from you.”

“I’m evolving,” Mira said. “Slowly. Like yogurt.”

They shared a tired smile.

The bell above the door jingled—Caius, back earlier than expected. He looked restless, phone still in hand.

“Everything okay?” Daphne asked.

“The studio wants more footage. They said the dance looked ‘too genuine.’ They want retakes, maybe stage lighting, better angles.”

“Retakes?” she repeated. “It wasn’t an act.”

“I know,” he said quickly. “That’s the point—they don’t.”

Silence settled again, thick as sugar syrup. Finn looked up from wiping. “So they want fake joy?”

“They want repeatable joy,” Caius said bitterly. “Something they can brand.”

Daphne exhaled. “Tell them no.”

“I did.”

“Good.”

He hesitated. “They didn’t take it well.”

Jamie peeked up. “Are we in trouble?”

“No,” Daphne said. “We’re just… offbeat.”

“That’s a good beat,” Finn said. “Harder to dance to, but it sticks.”

Mira stood, gathering her papers. “Then we stay offbeat. We just need to make sure no one mistakes that for disarray.”

Daphne smiled faintly. “You almost said the forbidden word.”

“I implied it with dignity,” Mira replied.

The tension softened into weary laughter.

Outside, rain began tapping the windows like polite applause. The neon sign flickered, uncertain but holding on. Caius sat beside Daphne on the floor, their shoulders almost touching.

“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to drag the studio in.”

“You didn’t,” she said. “Dreams attract noise. It’s part of the deal.”

He studied her profile. “You’re still going to keep doing the dance nights?”

“Of course. We built this to move, not to freeze.”

Jamie yawned. “Can I go home before I turn into a floor mat?”

“Go, morale officer,” Daphne said softly. “You’ve earned rest.”

He saluted and left with Finn trailing behind, muttering about rain puddles being dramatic mirrors.

When the door finally shut, Mira locked up and nodded once before disappearing into the back office, leaving Daphne and Caius alone in the low hum of the lights.

He said, “You know, I filmed last night because I wanted to remember it. But tonight—this? I think I’ll remember it without the camera.”

“Good,” she said. “This is the part people forget to film—the quiet between songs.”

They sat in that quiet, the rhythm gone but the pulse still there, faint and stubborn. The city outside buzzed, the rain whispered, and somewhere in the dark, the square waited again—brave as ever, patient for the next imperfect dance.