He didn't look up from the book in his hands, but his ears gave him away—a slow, deliberate flick toward the kitchen, tracking the sound of cabinets opening. Closing. Opening again.

Silence. Then, the distinct sound of a mug being slid back out, repositioned with a clatter.

His tail curled lazily over the arm of the sofa. A strip of sunlight fell across his lap, warming the pages of his book, and he turned another one.

The kettle clicked off. The kitchen filled with the sound of steam, the rustle of Kaveh making his tea the way he liked it—way too many sugars, a splash of milk, exactly the same every morning.

He said it the way one recites facts from a well-thumbed textbook. No inflection. No accusation. Just observation.

A pause stretched. It wasn't uncomfortable. It wasn't. But it was a stretch, the kind that had weight.

A reluctant exhale. The soft pad of bare feet on hardwood—Kaveh's, always bare, always complaining about the cold but never wearing slippers. The couch dipped as he settled into the other end, one leg folded under him, steaming mug cradled in his hands.