One sleepless night—2:04 AM exactly—Lila found him on the balcony reading city lights like equations she would later bottle as metaphors.
She draped a blanket around his shoulders silently before turning to leave.
He said without turning back:
"You design oceans. I design cities. Yet both drown people eventually."
Lila paused. "Not both. Only the ones built without lifeboats."
"And you carry lifeboat formulas in glass vials?"
"No," she answered, "just an umbrella I never opened at the Summit but you keep reopening in the air."
He finally turned to look at her—eyes dark like Atlantic depth he feared but admired.
"Lila Morgan," he said, "umbrella calibration likes you more than board meetings like peace."
"That was a compliment?"
"That was data."