The morning sun filtered softly through the wooden slats of the window shutters, casting golden stripes across the kitchen floor. The scent of yesterday's adobo still faintly lingered in the air—now mingled with the faint aroma of freshly steeped tea. It was quiet, peaceful, and for once, the weight of the world outside felt far away.
Inigo stood at the counter again, hands folded, gaze drifting thoughtfully toward the closed pantry door. He glanced over his shoulder at Lyra, who sat cross-legged at the table with her chin resting on her palm, watching him with sleepy curiosity.
"You're planning something," she said, half-amused.
"You're damn right I am," Inigo said. "I made you dinner yesterday. Today, you're having breakfast from my world."
Lyra blinked. "Another one?"
"Another one. I promised."
She smiled and stretched her arms over her head. "Alright then, show me what breakfast looks like where you're from."
