The tea sat in front of her, steaming gently. Peppermint. Of course. Dexter eased into the armchair across from her, his movements quiet, deliberate. His jacket was still damp at the shoulders, darkening the fabric, and his hair looked freshly wet — like the rain had caught him just before he made it inside. He smelled like it too. Rain, soap, and something faintly like leather. No cologne. Nothing sweet. Just clean and sharp, in that way that somehow always reminded her of early mornings and late nights.

He didn’t look at her right away. Just sat back, eyes on the window like the storm had his full attention.

"You always just... walk into people’s kitchens and make tea?" You ask him as you eye the tea. He puts a couple of small scoops of sugar in the mug and stirs it.

"Only when they need it." He says washing the spoon.

You wrapped ypur hands around the mug, warmth bleeding into your fingers. He didn’t ask you how you felt. He didn’t press. And that was exactly what made you let you guard down — just a little.