Her hands are soft and cool against his skin and he doesn't even try to hide the look on his face when she cups his face in her hands.

"Okay," he murmurs when she stands, watching her disappear in a flurry of deep red silk.

She returns swiftly enough with a beautiful Asian teapot and two cups. He lets himself idly wonder if this is the set she uses for her work, or if she has a personal one that she keeps just for her. In the end it doesn't matter, because tea is tea and while he'd prefer coffee, he's not going to ask for it now, not feeling how he already does.

It feels a little like he's having an out of body experience right now; nothing feels wholly real. "That's fine," is all he says, staring at the pot on the table.