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There. Exactly the reaction I expected. Except I didn't expect how genuinely confused he would look. Not suspicious. Confused. "Because you look like shit."

Rhyven blinks once. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." He looks at the cup again. I fold my arms. "Are you going to drink it or interrogate it?"

"Possibly both."

"Efficient."

He picks it up. Takes one drink. Stops. Very small. But I see it. His eyes lift. "How do you know how I take this?"

I shrug. "I have eyes." Silence. Something changes in his face. Not enough for me to name. Enough that I know I hit something. Rhyven looks down at the cup.

Then back at me.

"Right." That's it. Right. Rhyven Corvell, master of sarcasm, apparently defeated by coffee. I enjoy this far too much.

"You should eat too." I say. There. Now I've become him. Horrifying.

His eyebrow lifts. "I did."

"An apple isn't food."

"I had lunch."

"No, you didn't." His expression changes. Oh. Victory again.

"How would you know?"

I smile slowly. "I have eyes." His mouth twitches. There. Recovered. Mostly.

"Training in twenty." He says.

"I know."

"Left hand."

I stare. "We already suffered this morning."

"Not me." Oh. No.

"Absolutely not."

Rhyven takes another drink. "Twenty minutes."

"I'm going to poison your coffee next time."

"Then I'll know not to drink things you bring me."

Something about the wording catches. Next time.

At nineteen thirty, my left hand hates me again.

Rhyven is worse than my morning opponent because Rhyven knows exactly where I'm weak. He doesn't exploit it gently. Obviously.

"Grip."

"I know."