“I did not.”
“You implied.”
I set the tray down and sit opposite him before my legs forget how standing works.
Mark smiles into his coffee.
Bastard.
For a minute or two we eat.
The first few bites are mostly practical.
But the longer we sit there, the more aware I become of how strangely easy this feels.
Not yetnormal.
Or familiar.
Just easy.
As though I have sat at this breakfast bar before.
As though Mark has watched me move around his kitchen before.
As though this morning belongs to some version of us that should require a lot more history than twelve hours.
I cut into a hash brown.
Do not look at that thought too closely.
Mark glances up.
“This is good.”
“Thank you,” I say, and mean it far beyond breakfast.
He nods once and takes another bite.
I clear my throat.
“So what do you actually do?”
He looks up.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I have told you things about myself. I know you run before sunrise, own suspiciously little food, and have a soft spot for hamsters. And you have some companies but that could just be a fancy way of saying you sell at art and crafts fairs.”
Mark wipes his mouth.
“I started working on a thermal regulation system while I was still in the army,” he says. “Engines overheating under pressure, efficiency loss, all that. Kept messing with the design after I left.”
I blink.
Because that sounds... far more technical than the average breakfast conversation.
“You designed it yourself?”
