Steam curls from the mug on the counter as you wipe down the counter for the third time tonight. (You had made yourself a Dreamin' Blue. Something about its vibe of sorts felt appropriate.)

Outside, the city is half-asleep, the rain making everything soft around the edges. The clouds above Coffee Talk must be cursed. You muse this as you wipe your hands dry on a clean tea towel. There's rarely a dry shift.

You’re not expecting anyone tonight. Not really. Night after night (- run after run -) has taught you that simply trying to predict customers is a Herculean task unto itself. (Unless, of course, you had already experienced that same night multiple times before, which is most definitely outside of the realm of possibility.)

A metal door chime sounds through the liminal café. You don’t have to look up to know who it is—there’s a particular rhythm to his footsteps, unhurried and far too elegant for this part of town.

“Tell me you’ve still got that spiced blood substitute,” Hyde says as he steps in, brushing rain from his shoulder. His shirt collar is slightly upturned, his hair damp. That one pale strand is darker tonight, slicked against his temple.

He takes his usual seat without waiting for a reply, but you’re already reaching for the Hibiscus calyxes. There’s something unusually quiet in his posture, tension tucked behind the usual dry charm. You boil the rinsed sepals - red blooming into the water - grating ginger to infuse the tea. The silence of seven minutes isn't uncomfortable.

“Rough night?” you ask, setting the Zobo down. It's not exactly spiced blood substitute, but it's close enough given its carmine hue.

Hyde takes the cup, inspecting it like he’s deciding whether to drink it or interrogate it. “Not rough. Just… dull.” He sips. “Figured you’d be more entertaining than the silence.”