Nina grinned. “Old habits. Still not great with asymmetry.”

They weren’t always like this. The first year after their parents married had been clumsy—schedules, boundaries, the invisible lines between rooms and lives. Nina had retreated into precise routines; Skye had pushed against them with spontaneous weekend trips and late-night guitar sessions. Time, small kindnesses, and little shared disasters had slowly knotted them together.

When the bowls were nearly empty, Skye pushed hers toward the center. “Thanks,” she said simply.

Nina nodded. “It is.” She pushed her chair back and reached across the table, briefly—an awkward, practiced motion that spoke of rehearsal and truer intent. “We did what we could. We’re doing what we can.”