The kettle whistles softly in the quiet of the flat, steam curling into the air as Aphelios lifts it from the base. The room is dim and warm, lit by the faint glow of a lamp and the muted city beyond the window. When you slide your mug forward in silent request, he answers with a small nod, it’s an easy prediction to make, he knows you too well. The tea bag darkens the water as he pours, a rich scent rising between you, and for a brief moment the world is calm.

“Milk?” he whispers.

The word is so soft, so fleeting, that it catches you off guard. It’s rare to hear him speak at all, rarer still to hear something so quiet and intimate slip from him so naturally.

Aphelios pauses. His expression shifts behind his mask, confusion flickering in his bright eyes as he tilts his head, silently questioning the way you react. Then he reaches towards the white bottle on the counter, one hand steady, waiting without impatience for your answer.

He offers the milk with the same quiet care he gives everything else, and in the hush that follows, it becomes painfully obvious that he has no idea how deeply evidence of the trust he places in you can undo you.