"Anyway... I owe her an apology. And my thanks." Tyrone keeps his eyes on his hands as he speaks.
His fingers rub slowly against one another, unable to settle, as though all the shame he has carried over the past week has nowhere else to go. He has spent the flight home replaying every conversation in his head, every assumption he makes about Ariadne without ever giving her the chance to prove him wrong. The more he thinks about it, the more childish it sounds.
"I owe her my life." Before Aleysia can respond, another voice reaches them from another room in the house.
"Apology accepted." Both of them turn towards the source of the voice.
Ariadne walks outside carrying a wooden tray with a soft smile on her face. Three porcelain cups rest besides a small teapot, accompanied by sliced lemons, a small jar of honey, and a plate of butter biscuits that are still warm enough for steam to rise gently into the cold Arctic air.
