Amara turned, a glint of mock ceremony in her raised brow. "Early-morning gratitude offering," she said, letting the steam from the oven curl between them. "Don't get used to it."
Elijah's grin widened, still edged with sleep. "If this is what I get for being me," he drawled, "I might have to keep it up."
She gave a small laugh and brushed past him, the hem of her robe whispering against his leg. The warmth of his skin reached her through the thin cotton, a fleeting brush that felt almost accidental. "Coffee's fresh," she said over her shoulder. "Mugs are warm. Sit before Milo claims your chair."
He didn't sit, not yet. Instead he lingered near the counter, stretching in that loose-limbed way of his, while she reached into the cupboard for the heavy ceramic mugs. They were still warm from the oven's gentle heat, the clay radiating a quiet comfort that fit the morning. She liked the heft of them, the way they felt certain in her hands.
They began their dance without thinking, years of mornings distilled into instinct. She slid past him with the sugar jar just as he reached for the kettle; he stepped aside without looking, his hand finding the coffee press while hers found the butter dish. The scent of roasted beans and caramelized sugar mingled in the air, a slow-moving cloud of warmth.
"Did you hear about the neighbor?" Elijah asked, breaking the soft rhythm of spoon against porcelain. "Old Mr. Connor swears a crow sat on his satellite dish for an hour yesterday. Said it was plotting something."
Amara smiled, folding yellow napkins with deliberate care. "Maybe it was. Crows are clever. Probably trying to get better reception."
He chuckled, a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the room. "Connor would believe it. Next he'll be putting out breadcrumbs to keep it happy."
They moved around each other again: she laid out plates, he poured coffee, both of them adjusting without a word, as if their bodies knew the steps before their minds caught up. It felt like a quiet rehearsal for a play they'd been performing for years, each cue already written.
"Speaking of clever," she said, sliding the butter dish into place, "my client yesterday mixed up 'bare' and 'bear' through an entire manuscript. A very dramatic love story about a couple in the woods, of course."
Elijah's smile crooked sideways. "So was it a grizzly proposal or just… emotionally exposed?"
"Both, apparently." She let the laughter spill out, light and genuine, and for a moment the kitchen seemed to brighten with it.
He leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand. "I need more details. Was the bear a metaphor? Or did this poor couple just forget to pack clothes?"
Amara laughed again, the sound carrying through the warm air. "Oh, the plot was committed. The hero meets his beloved during a hike, and-quote- 'their hearts beat in sync as they stood bare among the trees, the mighty bear of destiny watching over them.'"
Elijah nearly choked on his coffee. "The mighty bear of destiny? That's… inspired. Or terrifying. I can't decide."
"That's not even the best part," she continued, eyes glinting. "Later, when the couple finally confesses their love, the author wrote, 'She bared her soul, and the bear approved.' Capital B. Like the bear was officiating the ceremony."
Elijah laughed so hard he had to set his mug down. "Did the bear have a name? Reverend Grizzle? Father Claw?"
"Apparently he was just The Bear," Amara said, deadpan. "A silent but spiritually significant witness. Maybe the sequel will give him a backstory."
He grinned, shaking his head. "I'm picturing a very dignified bear in a tiny clerical collar. Maybe holding a book of vows."
Amara mimed a solemn gesture, hand to heart. "'Do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded mate? Growl once for yes.'"
Elijah leaned back, still chuckling, and the sound filled the room like sunlight. "Please tell me you kept a copy. I need this in my life."
"I have the draft saved," she admitted. "I might frame the sentence about the bear approving. It deserves a place of honor."
Their laughter softened but lingered, like the warm scent of sugar and coffee. Milo stirred beneath the table, sighing as though their amusement disturbed his dreams.
When their eyes finally met again across the table, Amara felt a small spark something easy and unforced, a rare moment when the weight between them eased. For a little while they simply sat there, smiling over the rim of their mugs, the morning stretching itself wide and unhurried around them.
The jazz record drifted lazily from the corner, trumpet and piano weaving a slow conversation of their own.
They ate without hurry. The sticky buns yielded beneath their forks, the frosting soft enough to cling to fingertips. Outside, a light breeze rattled the new leaves, and the scent of sugar and coffee mingled with the faint sweetness of spring.
To anyone looking in from the street, it might have been the picture of contentment: a man and a woman in quiet harmony, their small world ordered and warm. And for a heartbeat, Amara almost let herself believe it. The warmth of the mugs, the easy give-and-take of their words, the subtle way he reached to brush a crumb from her cheek, it all formed a gentle cocoon.
But beneath that softness ran another current, something quieter and less certain. Their ease was real, yes, but also carefully tended, like a garden that would grow wild if left alone. Every shared glance, every practiced movement carried the memory of days when silence had meant something sharper.
She let the thought pass without chasing it, choosing instead to sip her coffee and watch the steam curl upward, a thin gray ribbon that dissolved into the morning light. Across from her, Elijah smiled, and she smiled back, their expressions fitting together like pieces of a well-worn puzzle beautiful, familiar, and just a little rehearsed.