The server gave a small nod and moved on, already turning her attention to another table. A moment later she returned with two plain cups and a squat pitcher, setting them down without ceremony. The wood of the table was warm where countless hands had rested before theirs.
Rhys wrapped his fingers around the cup, feeling the heat soak into his palms. He didn't drink right away. He let the sensation ground him, let the noise of the room pass through without catching. A spoon clinked against a bowl somewhere behind him. A chair scraped softly, then settled.
Caria took a slow sip, her gaze drifting over the room. She wasn't watching anyone in particular. She was simply aware—of the door opening and closing, of the way conversations rose and fell, of how easily they could stay here without explanation. When her eyes returned to Rhys, there was no question in them, just shared ease.
