The dryad awoke with the sun, yawning in the pale light. She stretched then got out of bed with an easy grace.

The mermaid slept on, muttering in her native language, complaining about the early hour. She returned to the sleepy seas after her sylvan wife gently kissed her forehead.

Creeping into the kitchen and whistling bird songs, the dryad began the day’s most important task: making coffee. She slid a trowel’s worth of silt into one side of the machine and a handful of coral into the other. Breakfast prep came next.

“Good morning, lazy scales,” the dryad teased the mermaid as she finally came into the kitchen.

Hair as wild as a storm, tail drifting back and forth, eyes as bleary as a treasure map, the mermaid began to reply but opted instead to simply stick out her tongue and make a silly vrrpt noise.

Chuckling to herself, the dryad set the table and laid out their breakfast.

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