The soft clink of ice against glass is the first thing that makes him sigh.

Leo doesn’t look up from where he’s leaning against the counter, arms crossed, but you can feel the weight of his disapproval. It’s not dramatic—he doesn’t scold, doesn’t nag. He just watches as you swirl the amber liquid in your glass, taking a slow sip like you have all the time in the world.

“You’re drinking again,” he says flatly.