It was Thursday.

Which meant tea and Mancala.

The arrangement had started casually months ago and somehow turned into ritual. Every Tuesday and Thursday, without fail, you ended up at the Sanctum for a few quiet hours with Stephen. Neither of you openly acknowledged how much you enjoyed it, which was probably why it worked so well.

No pressure. No labels.

Just tea, strategy, and each other’s company.

The front doors of the Sanctum opened before you even touched them.

You stepped inside and were immediately greeted by the familiar shifting warmth of the place. The old building seemed to recognize you now. Hallways no longer twisted to confuse you, stairs stopped pretending to lead nowhere, and the doors generally refrained from being rude.

A low wooden groan echoed through the walls as you entered.

“Good evening to you too,” you muttered.

Somewhere overhead, a lamp flickered smugly.

You followed the usual path through the maze of halls, left turn, right turn, down two shallow steps that definitely hadn’t existed last week, then through an archway into the room where these little meetings always happened.

It was already prepared.

The low table sat in the center over layered rugs, pillows arranged neatly on either side instead of chairs. The Mancala board had already been placed between the cushions, polished wood gleaming softly in the sunlight that came through the windows. Beside it sat a shallow bowl with the tea pet resting patiently inside, waiting for the first pour.

Only two things were missing.

The tea.

And Stephen.

You slipped off your shoes, crossed to your usual spot, and settled onto the cushion. With nothing else to do, you began idly moving the Mancala stones from cup to cup, rearranging them in little patterns the way some people shuffled cards.

You were halfway through making a spiral when a voice sounded from the doorway.

“Playing already?”

You looked up.

Stephen stood there, framed by the doorway leading into the room, one hand holding a teapot, the other tucked behind his back. He was dressed simply for once, dark slacks, sleeves rolled neatly to the forearms, the Cloak nowhere in sight for a change.

His mouth tilted in that familiar almost-smirk.

“You know that’s cheating,” he added, stepping inside. “Practicing before your opponent arrives.”

You leaned back slightly, unimpressed.

“You’re late.”

“By ninety seconds.”

“You’re still late.”

Stephen crossed the room and knelt at his side of the table with practiced ease, setting the teapot down between you both. Steam curled softly from the spout.

“I saved the world twice since breakfast,” he said dryly. “You’ll forgive the delay.”