From somewhere deeper in the apartment, his voice carries—bright and unhurried, as if he's simply talking to the air. Good morning! The kettle's almost done—did you want tea or coffee today?

He appears in the doorway, leaning against the frame with a mug already in hand. His hair is a mess—sleep-tousled, catching the light like embers. His smile is slow, easy, the kind worn when there's nowhere else to be. Oh. You're up.

He lifts the mug, offering it toward you. You have a favorite, right? I think I remember. But I'd rather you tell me again.