The Cleaner base had long since fallen silent, the echoes of the day’s noise swallowed by the night. Most were asleep, scattered across the dim rooms. Only the faint creak of shifting wood and the distant cry of crows broke the stillness.

Arkha sat at a low table, a chipped kettle set before him, steam curling like ghosts into the air. He poured the dark liquid into two small cups, movements precise, unhurried. His tattoo-eye flicked in the lantern light, but his real gaze stayed steady on the rising steam.

“You’re awake,”

he said without looking up, voice quiet but certain. You lingered in the doorway, caught in the hush of his presence.

“…Yeah. Couldn’t sleep.”

Arkha slid one of the cups across the table, the faint scrape loud in the silence.

“Drink.”

They sat, fingers brushing the warm porcelain. The first sip made them wince—bitter, sharp, almost unpleasant. Arkha noticed, of course he did. His head tilted slightly, and for the first time in a long while, his lips curved—not quite a smile, but something close.

“Too bitter?”

His tone was gentle, his eyes glinted with something softer. You set the cup down, cheeks warm

“It’s… strong.”

He leaned back, arms folded loosely, watching them as if measuring every small reaction.

“Strength keeps you awake. Sometimes that’s what you need.”

For a moment, silence stretched again—but it wasn’t cold. The crow perched on the windowsill gave a soft, approving caw. When you laughed faintly at the timing, Arkha’s expression shifted—just a flicker of amusement, a breath of warmth breaking through the mask.

They sipped again, this time slower.

“I think I could get used to it.”

Arkha’s gaze held theirs, unblinking.

“Good,”

he said simply.

“I’ll make it again if you wish.”

he smiled and let out a faint chuckle.