Her mouth curves. “Drink it.”
I obey.
The tea is strong, hot and sweet enough to make my teeth reconsider their life choices.
I cough once. “That is aggressive.”
“You looked like you needed aggressive tea.”
“I was unprepared.”
“You often are.”
“And yet I keep turning up.”
She looks at me over the rim of her own mug. “Yes. You do.”
The words should be nothing.
They are not nothing.
We stand side by side under the station lights, close enough that the sleeve of the jacket brushes her arm when I shift.
“Board games were a good idea,” she says.
I glance at her. “Don’t sound so surprised. I’m known for good ideas.”
“Don’t get carried away.”
“Too late. I’m emotionally dependent on your approval now.”
She gives me a look. “That sounds exhausting.”
“You have no idea.”
Something flickers in her expression.
Not amusement this time.
Something quieter.
“Maybe I do,” she says.
I do not answer immediately.
The words hang there between us, turning the air less playful by degrees.
She looks away first, out towards the dark edge of the yard.
I take another sip of tea, mostly to give my hands something to do.
“Last night,” I say, then stop.
Her shoulders tighten.
Not much.
Enough.
