The plaza was busier than usual that afternoon, volunteers shuffling wood, nails, and paint, voices overlapping in a messy chorus. Zen had been asked to help organize the supplies, though she struggled to tell one set of tools from another. Her hands weren't used to the grit, and though she laughed to hide her awkwardness, frustration simmered quietly beneath her smile. When she reached for a box of nails, her elbow brushed against a precarious stack of planks, sending them tumbling to the ground with a loud crash. Startled, she bent down quickly to fix the mess, only for her hand to bump against another—rough, calloused, and already gathering the scattered nails with practiced precision. She looked up and met Peter's eyes, but instead of warmth, she found a hard gaze that cut into her.
"You should be careful," Peter said flatly, his tone carrying more weight than the simple words deserved. Zen felt her cheeks heat at the rebuke, though she forced a small smile. "It was just an accident," she answered lightly, as if to soften the tension. But Peter's eyes didn't soften. "Accidents can hurt people," he added, stacking the wood back in place with swift, precise movements. The way he spoke made her feel like a child being scolded, and something inside her bristled. "I said I'm sorry," she snapped, sharper than she intended. His brow furrowed, not with anger but with quiet judgment, and he gave no reply. He simply stood, wiped his hands on his shirt, and returned to work as though she weren't even worth the conversation.
Zen remained kneeling on the ground, her heart unsettled. No one spoke to her that way—not friends, not family, not strangers. She was used to gentle words, even when she made mistakes, but Peter's indifference cut deeper than criticism ever could. To him she wasn't Zen Gomez, the girl everyone admired; she was just another careless hand at a site where precision mattered. Yet, instead of resentment fading, it stayed, tangled with something else—an ache she couldn't name. As the day went on, she found herself replaying his words, his tone, his unflinching stare. She told herself she disliked him, told herself she would keep her distance. But as much as she tried, her thoughts returned again and again to the man who had made her feel small, the man whose silence carried truths she wasn't ready to face. And Peter, though he worked without glancing at her again, carried the faintest irritation too—because no matter how hard he tried to ignore her, the sound of her voice lingered longer than it should have.