The morning sun sat low and steady over the crooked roofs, nothing dramatic about it. Atlas and Elara finished their breakfast on the porch—bread, some cheese that had seen better days, and weak tea.
They sat in the usual spots, elbows occasionally bumping the small table. Neither said much. The quiet felt comfortable.
Atlas pushed his plate back. "We've been orbiting each other pretty tight lately," he said, half to himself. "What if we tried something different today? Parallel porches. Same space, different things. No checking in every five minutes."
Elara raised an eyebrow, the scar along her jaw pulling slightly with the motion. "You mean I don't have to watch you pretend that carving isn't just whittling sticks into more sticks?"
"Exactly. And I don't have to pretend your herbs aren't mostly weeds with opinions."
She snorted. "Fine. Parallel it is. But if you start narrating your project out loud, I'm moving the bench."
