Thalatha stood and tightened each strap like she was closing a ledger—one by one, neat and final. Steam from the cups curled in the thin air, and the slot kept its small sounds: the quiet hum of the Brake Choir through stone, the soft ffft of Rodion's smoke snorkel. She smoothed the torn edge of her sleeve, testing the stitch Mikhailis had hidden there with a muttered apology to fabric. It held.
She turned as if to speak, changed her mind, and leaned back in first—fast, a small kiss stolen like a coin from an open dish. Mikhailis caught it without surprise. He deepened it for two slow breaths, warm and steady, then pulled back before it started to burn, a half-smile stuck on his mouth.
"Later," he said, voice soft but sure.
Later, yes. Don't turn today into a song and then forget the verses.
She nodded once. The kiss was not drama; it was fuel. The kind you store in a clean bottle and label for work.
