[ When he doesn't answer, her expression tightens with quiet concern. It doesn't take long for her understand—his voice is gone, likely from some kind of injury. Still, he carries an easy kind of energy even in silence, and she guides him into the kitchen, the kettle still letting off a soft curl of steam.
She pulls a notepad from the counter, a pencil balanced neatly on top, and slides it toward him before turning to the cabinets. Most of the dishes are matching, polished, a little too nice, but tucked among them are a few mismatched, ridiculous mugs, and those are the ones she reaches for. ]
Strawberry black tea sound good? [ She asks, glancing over her shoulder. ] I've got other kinds too—orange, Earl Grey, and a really floral jasmine white. [ Something warm, something gentle. It might help his throat. ]
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She pulls a notepad from the counter, a pencil balanced neatly on top, and slides it toward him before turning to the cabinets. Most of the dishes are matching, polished, a little too nice, but tucked among them are a few mismatched, ridiculous mugs, and those are the ones she reaches for. ]
Strawberry black tea sound good? [ She asks, glancing over her shoulder. ] I've got other kinds too—orange, Earl Grey, and a really floral jasmine white. [ Something warm, something gentle. It might help his throat. ]