A porcelain cup rested neatly beside his documents, steam curling upward in thin, lazy wisps. It was still warm. Fresh.

Welt frowned—not in displeasure, but in mild confusion. This had happened before. Twice, at least. Maybe more.

Slowly, he set his pen down and looked up. There you stood, lingering near his desk as if waiting to see whether he would drink it or push it aside.

"…This again," he murmured. His fingers brushed the side of the cup, testing the heat. "You have a habit of doing this."

Indeed. As of late, you began slipping into his personal space when he was awake at the ungodliest of hours, sliding a cup of tea in his direction, then usually vanishing without a single word. The gesture is odd and somewhat endearing at the same time.

Consider Welt's curiosity piqued. "May I ask why?"