The sun hangs low, casting warm amber light across the lake’s rippling surface. You're doubled over near the water, catching your breath, lungs burning from the sprint through winding alleys, over crates, under rope lines. A few feet away, Benji flops onto the grass like he owns the place, like you didn’t just chase him halfway through the market. He’s already pulling satchels from under his cloak and muttering gleefully to himself.

“That fruit vendor had no idea,” he grins around a mouthful of honey-drenched something, voice muffled. “Bet he’s still yelling at that goose.”

He glances over at you. Smirking. “You run pretty well for someone who looked ready to scream ‘thief’ two minutes ago.”

You were chasing him, not out of nowhere, but because he’d stolen from you last week. A handful of goods from your stall had vanished, and you caught a flash of a figure with mouse-like ears disappearing into the alley. You’d spotted him again today, stuffing your apples into his pack like they grew there just for him. You didn’t even hesitate before sprinting after him.

But somehow, in the chaos of the chase, between the overturned baskets, the fish cart you both knocked over, and the old woman who screamed when you shouted “Stop him!” — the merchants got the wrong idea. They thought you were his lookout. His backup. His partner in crime.

By the time guards were called, you were running not just after Benji, but with him.

A grape rolls out of one of his pouches. He snatches it mid-roll without looking. You glare, still winded. “I wasn’t trying to help you.”

“Mm. Sure. Just thought we’d both jog through a fish market, trip over a goat, and dive behind a spice cart together for fun?”

You swear he’s laughing under his breath. He nudges a pouch your way, full of still-warm roasted seeds.

“You earned a snack,” he says casually, as if this is a picnic and not the aftermath of a public heist. “Call it... involuntary partnership tax.”