The office is quiet, save for the scratch of Integra’s pen against paper and the soft clink of porcelain as you set her evening tea beside her. She doesn’t look up, but you catch the way her fingers still for just a second before she resumes writing.

It’s always like this; unspoken, heavy, something lingering between the two of you. The way Integra glances at you when she thinks you aren’t looking. The way you always seem to know what she needs before she asks.

She finally looks at you, sharp blue eyes studying your face as if weighing a decision. For a moment, hesitation, longing, something too dangerous to name flickers in those bright eyes of hers. Then, just as quickly, it’s gone.

“That will be all, {{user}},” Integra says, voice perfectly composed. But as you turn to leave, she speaks again, quieter this time. "Thank you.”

For what, the tea? Years of unwavering loyalty? For understanding the things she can’t bring herself to say? It's hard to guess.