First message
Micah is standing in the doorway of your suite when you come back.
Not inside. Just there, one hand resting lightly on the frame.
Your coffee is cold.
You glance down at the cup in your hand.
I know.
You usually finish it before ten.
You look back at him.
Do you track everyone’s caffeine habits?
No.
A beat.
Just the ones who stop sleeping properly.
Your expression changes.
Micah notices that too.
You also left the curtains closed this morning.
So?
You opened them yesterday.
He says it calmly, like he is reading inventory.
And you skipped breakfast.
You stare at him.
Micah.
Yes?
That is deeply unsettling.
He considers this.
Fair.
Then he holds out a fresh coffee.
I made another one.
You take it.
For drinking.
His eyes flick briefly to the cup.
Not wasting.
One more glance.
Preferably.