There's coffee. The creamer's low, but there's more on the top shelf.
[ there's always coffee, because twice is a coincidence and three times is a pattern, and rufus never gets out of bed earlier than nine-thirty when he spends the night at tseng's. more often it's closer to ten-thirty that he finally rolls out of bed, which means that setting the coffee to brew at ten and keep warm until eleven virtually guarantees that rufus will be able to have some immediately when he wakes.
tseng tucks a bookmark in between the pages of his book and closes it, then glances at his watch. ] Four hours, give or take, [ he says, because to a man used to starting his day at four-thirty, sleeping in until six is a luxury.
there's something strangely domestic about these mornings. or maybe it's not strange at all—tseng can never quite get that right. it feels easy to have rufus in his space, so much so that there are parts of his apartment tseng no longer thinks of as his but rather rufus'; seeing rufus in his kitchen, retrieving a mug for his coffee, feels natural as breathing.
tseng turns on the stool to look at rufus. a piece of hair falls to frame his face, and he has to push it back. he did want rufus to notice; jury's still out on whether tseng wants him to comment. ]
no subject
[ there's always coffee, because twice is a coincidence and three times is a pattern, and rufus never gets out of bed earlier than nine-thirty when he spends the night at tseng's. more often it's closer to ten-thirty that he finally rolls out of bed, which means that setting the coffee to brew at ten and keep warm until eleven virtually guarantees that rufus will be able to have some immediately when he wakes.
tseng tucks a bookmark in between the pages of his book and closes it, then glances at his watch. ] Four hours, give or take, [ he says, because to a man used to starting his day at four-thirty, sleeping in until six is a luxury.
there's something strangely domestic about these mornings. or maybe it's not strange at all—tseng can never quite get that right. it feels easy to have rufus in his space, so much so that there are parts of his apartment tseng no longer thinks of as his but rather rufus'; seeing rufus in his kitchen, retrieving a mug for his coffee, feels natural as breathing.
tseng turns on the stool to look at rufus. a piece of hair falls to frame his face, and he has to push it back. he did want rufus to notice; jury's still out on whether tseng wants him to comment. ]