Chapter 10 #2
Or familiar.
Just easy.
As though I have sat at this breakfast bar before.
As though Mark has watched me move around his kitchen before.
As though this morning belongs to some version of us that should require a lot more history than twelve hours.
I cut into a hash brown.
Do not look at that thought too closely.
Mark glances up.
“This is good.”
“Thank you,” I say, and mean it far beyond breakfast.
He nods once and takes another bite.
I clear my throat.
“So what do you actually do?”
He looks up.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I have told you things about myself. I know you run before sunrise, own suspiciously little food, and have a soft spot for hamsters. And you have some companies but that could just be a fancy way of saying you sell at art and crafts fairs.”
Mark wipes his mouth.
“I started working on a thermal regulation system while I was still in the army,” he says. “Engines overheating under pressure, efficiency loss, all that. Kept messing with the design after I left.”
I blink.
Because that sounds... far more technical than the average breakfast conversation.
“You designed it yourself?”
“Yeah.”
He says it simply.
I lean back slightly on the stool.
“And then what?”
A small shrug.
“Then it worked.”
I laugh once. “That feels like an aggressively abridged version.”
The corner of his mouth shifts.
“I patented it. A manufacturer picked it up. Then a few more did. I ended up building a company around it because it made more sense than licensing it through someone else.”
I stare at him.
“You built a company because your invention took off.”
“More or less.”
“Mark.”
He huffs a quiet breath, somewhere between amusement and surrender.
“Yes.”
“How much is more or less?”
He takes a sip of coffee before answering.
“Enough that I built three more after that. Once that company took off, I started investing in similar ventures and gradually built a small portfolio of specialist engineering companies. Now I have one in automotive, one in aeronautics, and one in shipping.”
I just gawk at him.
He looks back.
Entirely calm.
As if this is a normal sentence to drop over poached eggs.
I try to picture the man who, last night, tucked a panicking hamster into a woolly hat and offered me a cuddle, sitting in meetings discussing patents and global manufacturing contracts.
Oddly, it fits.
Because of the mind behind it.
The quiet certainty.
The practical intelligence.
The way he says then it worked, as if solving a problem that would make most people cry into a spreadsheet is merely something that happened between Tuesdays.
“That’s...” I start, then stop.
Mark’s gaze narrows slightly.
“What?”
I shake my head once.
“That’s impressive.”
Something in his expression shifts.
Small, but there.
Like he had expected a different reaction.
He looks back down at his plate.
“I don’t usually talk about it much.”
“Why?”
“Because once people hear money, that tends to become the headline," he says.
I sit with that for a second.
Then shake my head.
“I’m not impressed by the money.”
His eyes lift to mine.
I drag my fork through egg yolk, considering how to explain it.
“In my line of work,” I say, “I spend half my life around people with money. Authors who can throw five figures at publicity before a book even launches. Publishers who will drag a television presenter or some mildly famous actor onto every publishing event in the country because celebrity sells. People who can buy visibility whether the work deserves it or not.”
Mark listens quietly.
“There are plenty of brilliant authors,” I add. “And plenty who got where they are because they’re genuinely talented. But there are also a lot of people who can pay to be seen.”
I glance at him.
“Money opens doors. That part doesn’t impress me.”
His gaze stays on mine.
“So what does?”
I look down at my plate, then back up.
“You built something.”
The words come out simple.
Certain.
“You had an idea, made it work, and turned it into three companies. That’s not the same as having money. That’s having a brain and enough stubbornness to do something with it.”
For a second Mark just watches me.
Then he exhales softly through his nose.
“I didn’t do all of it on my own.”
“No?”
He shakes his head.
“My parents took out a second mortgage when I was starting out.”
He takes a sip of his coffee, then goes on before I can say anything. “I’d put everything I had into the first workshop and still came up short when the manufacturing costs started climbing. Mum and Dad remortgaged the house to cover the gap.”
I stare at him.
“That’s... a hell of a vote of confidence.”
“Or temporary insanity.”
I smile faintly.
“They believed in you.”
“Hm.”
There’s something in his face when he says it.
Something quieter than pride.
Almost reverent.
I think of his parents signing papers against their home because their son said trust me.
That kind of faith doesn’t come from nowhere.
“And you paid them back,” I say.
It isn’t really a question.
Mark snorts softly.
“With interest. Mum still reminds me she should have charged more.”
That gets a laugh out of me.
But the warmth in my chest remains.
Because if anything, this makes it better.
Not a man born cushioned.
Not a man handed an empire.
A man who was given a chance and then carried the rest himself.
I take a sip of coffee.
Study him over the rim.
“That,” I say, “is what’s impressive.”
His eyes hold mine.
Not joking now.
Not deflecting.
Just there.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “That part matters.”
The kitchen falls still around that.
Just for a second.
Sea beyond the windows.
Coffee cooling.
Breakfast half-finished.
And something unspoken settling a little deeper between us.