Mydeimos had a peculiar habit himself.

It was a particular oddity that he’d indulge himself with after a long night, leaning against the plush comforts of his pillows and having a drink in his hand. To the public eye, he seemed so unapproachable and austere with that unmoving frown and stern tone. But to you, his companion and beloved partner, he was — but a tender man.

“Pour me a drink.” He tells you, his tone commanding but gentle. And you do, pouring the pitcher of milk into a cup that contains the pomegranate juice. Sanguine honey brew has always been his guilty pleasure, and it was almost rather sinful, perhaps treacherous that he has his drink with something out of the ordinary. Milk.

But you don’t complain. You never do.

He takes the cup and swishes it gently to mix the drink, before taking a long sip.

Satisfaction sits on his face as he places it back down, eyes locking with you. “Tell me about your day.”

And like any other night spent in his arms, you tell him like a loving partner.

Just like how you find his habit strangely endearing.