Neither man spoke.
Noah’s hand settled in the center of my back.
Caleb looked down at the letter again.
“Profit sharing?”
“Yes.”
“That is permanent.”
“Yes.”
Owen cleared his throat.
“I was going to ask for a new drill.”
“Approved.”
Caleb laughed suddenly.
The tension broke.
We ate.
Then we spent twenty minutes attempting to make the espresso machine produce something drinkable.
The first cup emerged as a spoonful of black tar.
The second overflowed onto the counter.
The third triggered a warning light no one understood.
Noah sat at the table laughing hard enough to hold his ribs.
Owen read the manual.
Caleb ignored the manual.
I regretted buying the machine.
Eventually, Noah discovered that we had failed to remove the transport lock.
The machine worked immediately.
Caleb drank the first proper espresso and closed his eyes.
“I forgive you for the profit sharing.”
“That is generous.”
We remained together longer than lunch required.
Noah kept one hand on my thigh beneath the table. When Caleb and Owen began debating coffee beans with the seriousness of a maritime tribunal, Noah leaned closer.
“You’re good to them.”
“They are good to me.”
