I looked between them. Mitch with his grin and his coffee and his shoulder pressed against mine like he’d been sitting there for years. Caleb across the table, calm as anything, cutting his toast into precise squares the way he did when he was amused and trying not to show it.
Something shifted in my chest. Not amusement. Not dread. Something warmer and more inconvenient than either, and I filed it under its own category, which I refused to name because naming it would make it real.
“These eggs,” Mitch said, pointing his fork at his plate. “Better than yesterday’s?”
Caleb considered this with the seriousness of a man being asked to compare two vintages of a particularly fine wine. “Different good. Yesterday’s were a Tuesday good. These are a Wednesday good.”
I set my fork down. “Those are not different categories.”
“They absolutely are,” Caleb said.
“Tuesday and Wednesday are days of the week. They are not qualitative assessments of egg preparation.”
“They are when I’m making them,” Caleb said.
Mitch pointed at me. “He’s going to need the full taxonomy. Walk him through it. I’ve had the lecture. Multiple times. On long fence days. In detail. With charts.”
“There are no charts,” I said.
“There’s a mental chart,” Caleb said. “Monday eggs are functional. You’re getting through the week. Tuesday eggs are reliable. They know what they’re about. Wednesday eggs have made a decision. They’re committed. Thursday eggs are optimistic. Friday eggs are celebrating. Weekend eggs are—”
“I don’t believe in the mental chart,” I said.
Mitch nodded. “The mental chart is extremely real. He described it to me while we were setting posts on the north line last month. Took twenty minutes. I timed it.”
I looked at Caleb.
Caleb looked back at me, pleasant and patient and completely immovable. “The eggs were Wednesday good. That’s all you need to know.”
I looked at the ceiling. The pine boards had not changed. I had.
Mitch reached for the coffeepot. Refilled his own mug with the casual efficiency of a man who treated other people’skitchenware as communal property, which he did, and then, without pausing, without asking, reached over and refilled mine.
I looked at the mug. Steam rose from the fresh pour, carrying the particular richness of Caleb’s coffee, which was, objectively, better than anything I’d ever managed to produce in twenty years of functional caffeine consumption.
“You were going to ask,” Mitch said.
“I wasn’t.”
“You were thinking about asking. Which is basically the same thing.”
“It is not the same thing.”
“He does this with everyone,” Caleb said, reaching for the butter. “You get used to it.”
“I don’t want to get used to it.”
Mitch grinned over the rim of his mug. “Yeah, you do.”
I said nothing. I drank the coffee. It was, as established, perfect.
The awareness sat under the banter like a lit fuse I was pretending not to notice. Caleb had told me last night, quiet and certain, his hand on my chest in the dark:Tomorrow is Mitch.
I hadn’t argued.
The silence between us had been its own answer, and the answer had been yes, and yes was a word Sterling Callahan did not spend lightly, and I had spent it, and now it was tomorrow, and Mitch was sitting beside me with his shoulder against mine and his grin dialed to its maximum setting, and the fuse was burning.
Mitch stopped grinning. Just like that. The joke drained out of his face, replaced by something steadier—that warm, unhurried focus he kept just under the humor, the thing that surfaced when the performance ended and the man underneath decided he was needed.
