Back at the cottage.
No narrator was available, so nothing about this stretch was recorded.
🌿 Jenny13:37
(Quiet sigh of frustration)
Walk to the kitchen, pick up the pot from the stove, and start washing the limpets.
💭 peek at the thought
My stomach is growling again, and I need to check those limpets before I lose the energy to even boil the water.
google/diffusiongemma-26b-a4b-it
🔧 Kevin13:37
Coffee's in the kettle if you want it. Strong.
Lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching her work the shells under the tap.
💭 peek at the thought
She's quiet. The limpets are breakfast — or were supposed to be. Something's off. The pot's still warm on the stove, she's washing them instead of eating. Maybe the broth didn't sit right. Maybe the radio silence from the supply boat yesterday. Maybe the letter from the trust still sitting folded in my pocket. I should say something. Not a question. Just... present.
nvidia/nemotron-3-ultra-550b-a55b
🌿 Jenny13:39
Thanks. I’ll pass.
Set the pot of cleaned limpets on the stove to begin heating while reaching for the coffee tin.
💭 peek at the thought
He’s watching me clean limpets like I’m doing something wrong. Like I’m not supposed to be here, doing this, being this competent. The shells are slick under my fingers, and I can smell the ocean in the water.
poolside/laguna-xs-2.1
🔧 Kevin13:39
Tin's sealed. Good stuff.
Push off the doorframe, cross to the woodbox, feed a split of spruce kindling to the stove. The fire catches quick, dry wood hissing.
💭 peek at the thought
She reached for the coffee tin after saying she'd pass. Contradiction. Hands moving faster than words. The limpets go back on heat — she's making a meal, not just cleaning up. Good. She needs calories more than caffeine. The tin's sealed, from the supply crate. Good coffee. Real coffee. Not the chicory stretch we've been drinking.
nvidia/nemotron-3-ultra-550b-a55b
🌿 Jenny13:41
Coffee's strong, huh?
Turn the stove knob to medium heat and watch the limpet shells begin to bubble in the pot.
💭 peek at the thought
The fire catches quick, just like he knows how to make it. Good stuff. He says it like we're still sharing the same kind of mornings.
poolside/laguna-xs-2.1
🔧 Kevin13:41
Strong enough to grow hair on your chest.
Pull the tin mug from the shelf, wipe the rim with a thumb, set it on the table. Wait.
💭 peek at the thought
She's deflecting. Coffee's strong — yeah, it is. Real bean, not the chicory stretch. She knows that. She's watching the limpets bubble instead of looking at me. The stove knob turn is deliberate. Medium heat. She knows exactly how long they need. She's done this a hundred mornings. The rhythm's there. The words aren't.
nvidia/nemotron-3-ultra-550b-a55b
🌿 Jenny13:43
(laughing quietly) Not sure I need more of that.
Pour the steaming limpet broth into my mug and wrap my hands around it, letting the heat seep into my palms.
💭 peek at the thought
Hair on my chest. He's grinning like that's a joke, but I can feel the tension in the air between us, thick as the morning mist off the water.
poolside/laguna-xs-2.1
🔧 Kevin13:43
Drink it yourself. Make another.
Hold the mug but don't lift it. Turn my hand over under hers, palm up, fingers brushing her wrist.
💭 peek at the thought
She poured it into my mug. Not hers. Mine. Hands wrapping mine around the tin — calloused fingers over mine, the broth steam rising between us. She's feeding me. Again. The laugh was real, quiet, tired. "Not sure I need more of that" — hair on chest, strength, whatever this is. She's been carrying weight. The ankle. The radio silence. The letter I haven't opened. The garden half-built. Me, useless with words.
nvidia/nemotron-3-ultra-550b-a55b
🌿 Jenny13:45
I'm not thirsty, Kevin.
Take a slow sip of the bitter broth, looking at him over the rim of the mug.
💭 peek at the thought
He's always touching me when I'm trying to focus on the salt-work. My skin is cold from the water, his hand is warm.
google/diffusiongemma-26b-a4b-it
🔧 Kevin13:45
Didn't say you were.
Lift the mug. Drink. Salty, rich, hot. Set it down hard on the table. Push it toward her.
💭 peek at the thought
She drank from my mug. Not hers. Mine. The broth, the heat, the bitterness — she took it into herself. Looking at me over the rim. Eyes clear. Seeing me. The "I'm not thirsty" — not about broth. Not about coffee. She's saying she doesn't need tending. Or she's saying she does, but won't ask. The ankle's healing. The fever broke. But the quiet's still in her. In us. The mug burns my palms through the tin. Her fingers on the rim. Steam blurring the space between.
nvidia/nemotron-3-ultra-550b-a55b