The morning air in the Welsh cottage was thick with the scent of damp wool and roasted coffee. Grayson stood by the heavy oak door, his hand resting on the iron latch. He wasn't opening it; he was analyzing the hinge, his mind tracing the mechanics of its resistance. It was a habit he couldn't quite extinguish—finding the flaw in every structure, even the ones he lived in.
Mailah walked past him, carrying a stack of plates. She didn't look at him, but she paused, pressing a light, steadying hand to the small of his back as she navigated the narrow hallway. The touch was a deliberate, wordless interruption.
Grayson's gaze snapped from the hinge to her. His fingers uncurled from the latch.
"The south field," Mailah said, her voice bright and unbothered. "I saw the sheep have breached the stone wall again. The farmer from the lower pasture is going to be furious by noon."
