The apartment above the photo shop was silent, save for the soft hum of a kettle and the muffled rain tapping against the windows. Warm light pooled in golden circles across the wooden floor, reflecting off the pale ceramic mugs already waiting on the counter.
Mikhail stood by the sink, sleeves rolled up, stirring honey into one of the cups with slow, deliberate turns. He always made tea like it was an art form—careful and measured. Leonhart leaned against the doorway, watching him. Shirt unbuttoned, hair damp from the shower, looking a little more undone than usual.
"You know I can stir my own tea, right?" Leon said, smiling faintly.
Mikhail didn't look up. "You'd use too much honey."
Leon's laugh was quiet and low, the kind that always made Mikhail's lips twitch—just a little. Barely there. But it was real.
The cat was already curled on the couch, a soft grey lump against the dark throw blanket. It opened one eye lazily as Leonhart passed, then closed it again with a soundless huff. Mikhail's cat. Clearly.
Leon took the mugs when Mikhail handed them over, brushing their fingers together in the exchange. Mikhail's touch was always cool, but never cold. Like stone warmed by the sun.
They sat together on the couch, legs brushing. Mikhail sipped his tea with quiet focus, while Leon slouched deeper into the cushions, the steam fogging the lenses of his reading glasses.
"Busy day?" Leon asked.
Mikhail nodded. "Film drop. A few portfolios. Someone tried to flirt. Failed."
Leon turned to him, mock offended. "Was it my competition?"
"They had neon sunglasses and chewed gum like a cow. You're safe."
Leon chuckled, tilting his head to nudge Mikhail's shoulder. "Good. I'd hate to have to throw down in the darkroom."
Mikhail hummed, a barely audible sound, but something in the corner of his mouth softened. He didn't laugh often. He didn't need to. But when he let Leon in—even a little—it felt like unlocking something secret.
"You didn't eat," Mikhail said after a pause. Not a question. Just an observation, quietly given.
"I forgot."
"I didn't."
He stood, walked to the kitchen, and returned with a plate of something simple—bread, cheese, cold meat, sliced neatly and arranged like a still life. Leon looked at it, then at him.
"You always act like you're not sweet," Leon murmured, "and then you do things like this."
Mikhail sat back down beside him, not looking directly at him.
"It's not sweet. It's practical."
"Sure."
They ate in quiet companionship, legs pressed together. Outside, the rain thickened. The cat stretched, turned once, and settled again with its back pressed to Mikhail's thigh.
Leon reached for Mikhail's hand. Just let it rest there. Mikhail let him. His fingers didn't tighten, but they didn't pull away either.
"I like this," Leon said, voice low.
Mikhail glanced at him, eyes unreadable but not cold. "I know."
No promises. No declarations. Just this: quiet presence, the way Mikhail always showed care—in silence, in ritual, in small, unwavering things.
Leon leaned his head on Mikhail's shoulder, and for once, Mikhail didn't tense. He sat there, still and warm, with the weight of Leon against him and the cat guarding them both like a silent sentinel.