Kettle humming before it singsβlow, steady sound that fills the space just enough to keep everything else from pressing too close. Hands moving with ease, without thought. Cup, jujube, fresh ginger, all but a familiar rhythm of something that's been brewed and done too many times to count. Pouring, steeping, waiting. Focused to something that isn't him.
The question hangs there for a momentβnot the teasing, nor the softness that tries to return. Half-formed. As though reaching for something familiar to steady himself with. Much like how the steam begins to rise slowly, curling into the air in thin wavering lines. The sound over that quiet corner informing, aware enough of the shift of weight into the chair, that faint mechanical whirr as it starts, that small exhale that leaves him when he finally lets himself settle.
Familiar. Far too familiar.
β Obviously. It was a gift. β
Answer coming without any emphasis nor the usual roll of her eyes. As if that alone explains everything... because it does and should. Time passes just enough for the tension to loosen its grip, enough for the space to shift and settle into something much softer, much easier to breathe in.
A hand pausing where it rests against the counter, the absence of sound registering first. Nothingβno smart ass remarks, no shifting, no restless movement. Only then does her attention darts toward him. Form slumped slightly into the massage chair, head tilted back, features more loosened in a way that's rare... one that she doesn't often see. Unguarded. Unrestrained. Just... tired. It shows more now at that faint crease of those brows, that even in rest mode doesn't come without something pulling at him. The kind of exhaustion that doesn't come from one night. It's something that builds, stacking and seeping into the bones.
The kettle clicks off behind her, she doesn't move to attend to it but instead she moves, stepping closer, carefully. A blanket rests nearby, the same one that she pulls over herself with whenever she ends up in that chair for too long. And without a word, she drapes it over him. Not fussing, not adjusting too much... enough to cover, enough to keep.
β Telling me I'm stubborn... β
Her gaze drops to the bunny plushie still in his hand, a faint escape leaves her that's much quieter than anything, voice equally soft and low.
β ...when you're just as bad. You don't even know when to stop. β
Fingers shifting, brushing lightly against the edge of the blanket near his shoulder.
β How are you supposed to take care of everyone else... if you can't even take care of yourself properly? β
β λ°λ³΄μΌ... (You dummy...) β
Gaze lingering a moment longer and then she leans in, slow. Close to feel the warmth of him again. Then her gaze flickers once, just briefly toward his face, his forehead. And she stops. Just there and hovering until a breath passes before pulling back. Fingers lift instead, delicate, barely grazing a loose strand of hair, barely there almost nothing before it falls away again.
β Be a little kinder to yourself. β
The words are quiet. So quiet, that it comes out hushed. She straightens, stepping back into her space, into the distance she's kept intact all this time. Back to where she was. And he's still there. Exactly where she told him to be.
