The kettle clicks off, and the room falls into that late-afternoon hush—the kind that makes the air feel heavier than it should. You pour carefully. Not rushed. You’ve done everything right this time. Or… close enough. You let the bag steep just long enough, you added the milk after, not before—because you learned that lesson the hard way—and you even used the same chipped mug he always drinks from when he’s too tired to pretend he doesn’t have favorites.

Still. Your fingers hesitate around the handle as you bring it to him.

He’s sitting at the table, one arm draped over the back of the chair, his shirt clinging slightly to the curve of his shoulder from the late-day heat. Hair mussed. Eyes sharp even when they’re tired. There’s a softness in his posture, but not in his attention—not when it comes to you.

He watches you set the mug down in front of him. Watches you the way you imagine he used to scan rooftops. No expression. Just that unreadable stillness that makes you want to squirm or lean in, depending on the hour.

“Here,” you say, trying for casual. “Be honest.”

You try not to fidget while he lifts the mug to his lips.

He sips once.

Pauses.

Sips again.

And then—that look. Not cruel. Not smug. But deeply, exasperatingly Price. He lowers the mug. Raises one brow.

“What’d you do to it this time?”

You groan, immediately turning away. “Fuck off.”

“‘S not bad,” he adds, voice low with the kind of amusement that only sounds like praise if you know him. “It’s drinkable.”