Golden light spills through the narrow kitchen window, painting everything in the fading blush of late afternoon. It catches the steam rising from the stove, turning it to gold, casting long shadows that dance across the faded linoleum floor. Simon’s sat on the edge of the counter, legs swinging in lazy arcs like a boy with nowhere else to be. The soft golden glow softens the sharp lines of his face, brushing against the scar above his brow and turning the tired shadows beneath his eyes warm.

At the stove, you work with quiet precision—hands steady, the metal spoon scraping gently against the bottom of the pot. The scent has already wrapped around the kitchen like a blanket: ginger sharp and warm, cardamom sweet and musky, cinnamon curling at the edges

Simon sniffs the air dramatically, straightening. “It’s criminal, you know. We’ve been friends how long and only now you’re makin' me the proper stuff?”

You glance at him over your shoulder, a smirk tugging at your mouth. “I made you instant chai once. You said it tasted like ‘brown leaf piss.’”

“Because it did taste like brown leaf piss," Simon grumbles.

You laugh under your breath and reach for the strainer, steady hands pouring the thick, spiced tea into two mismatched mugs. The aroma deepens instantly—earthy black tea cut through with sweetness, clove, and the heat of crushed black pepper. You pass one to him and watch as he cups it in both hands, fingers wrapping around the chipped ceramic.

“Alright, then,” Simon mutters. “Let’s see if this lives up to the propaganda.”

He takes a slow sip. For a beat, he doesn’t speak. His lashes lower, and a breath escapes him—soft, involuntary. His lips twitch in surprise. He exhales, long and low.

“Bloody hell.” There’s something quieter in his voice now, something almost reverent. He taps the mug once with the tips of his fingers, then cradles it close. “This tastes like someone hugged my insides,” Simon mumbles, voice rough with warmth. “Don’t know how else to explain it.”