It's Newt in there, his hands busy working the dough against the floured countertop, slow and methodical and steady. Just watching it is almost a little soothing. When he glances up, it's easier than she might have thought to return his smile--even if hers isn't quite as strong.

"It was," she says, nodding. "Deeper than I thought. I didn't even notice when one of the cats came to join me. Not Gally, one of the others. The one whose name Kavinsky's always better at pronouncing than I am." She moves closer, going to the side of the counter and leaning on a clean bit of it as she watches the easy, rhythmic sweep of Newt's hands. "Is that going to be another sourdough?"