You’re next to your boyfriend, just watching as Bruce prepares the tea, watching his pale thin fingers wrap around the silver spoon to coax the chamomile crushed in the teabag to trickle into the hot water, the sweet steam drifting up, making a soft pinkish flush spread over your cheeks.

You’d woken up from a shitty dream in your shared bed and Bruce had already been awake, one hand spread over his ribs. Now he’s brewing you both some tea. You don’t say anything as you watch Bruce, the subtle scent of sweet floral drifting over you. The camomile he’s brewing is starting to remind him of you — of sleepless 3am nights spent in his much too big kitchen, the gentle hum of the fridge and the marble countertops. Of your presence close by, of your eyes always on him.

Akutagawa’s always liked tea. The routine of it all — the whistle of the kettle, the spill of hot water, the gentle clink of a spoon. Jasmine is his favourite because it soothes his throat best and reminds him of the way his mother smelt before she was taken from him. Now he spends his time making you tea, preparing it perfectly so he can see the faint sweat curve of your smile at your lips as you sip.

Bruce slides you a mug wordlessly once the tea turns that shade of golden, just one the right side of amber, standing in a black long sleeve and black pyjamas pants, watching the dewy lighting of the late night on your skin. He watches as you take a sip, watches the flush spread on your cheeks from the steam.

“What was your dream about?” Bruce murmurs as he shifts just so he can press his shoulder to yours, a small token of reassurance, of understanding and quiet affection as he sips on his tea.