"The toast is carbon."
"The toast has character."
"The toast has a DNR."
He laughs. Not surprised this time. Ready for me. That might be worse.
"Coffee?" he asks.
"Is it also dead?"
"Possibly wounded."
"Black."
"Because you're brave or because you hate yourself?"
"Both."
He pours two mugs. The coffee is bad. Not arena-machine bad. Domestic bad, which is different. Earnest. Incorrect ratio, wrong temperature, probably beans from a grocery store shelf with no date on the bag. Luca would file a grievance on behalf of coffee as a concept.
I drink it anyway.
Caleb watches me over his mug. "Well?"
"It has character."
"That is not usually a compliment."
"Correct."
He smiles into his coffee.
We eat toast at the counter because Caleb's apartment has a small table covered in books and a mail stack organized into three piles that probably mean something to him. The darker toast tastes like punishment. The pale toast tastes like surrender. I eat both.
"You don't have morning skate until ten," he says.
"You know my schedule."
"Yes."
"Still?"
He looks at me. "Knowing your schedule is allowed. Using it to evaluate your trade value is not."
"Distinction."
"Important one."
I nod.
The silence after is not awkward. It is a working silence. New construction. Slightly unstable, but holding.
"I watched your college film," I say.
Caleb freezes with his coffee halfway to his mouth.
There. Said. No strategy. No safe setup. Just the lane, open for less than a second, and me going before it closed.
