From the chair, Regulus watched this exchange with the focused attention of someone studying a dynamic he hadn't fully mapped yet. He'd been doing that a lot—watching the people around Aris with the quiet methodical interest of someone building a picture.
Aris had noticed, obviously he had. Anything ever rarely slipped past his attention.
Anyhow, for some reason he found it, against his better judgment, mildly impressive that Regulus had pivoted from waking up in a medical ward to conducting social reconnaissance within the span of a week.
The kettle whistled.
He made the tea. Three cups, Lyra took hers without looking up from her tablet, the choreography of routine—and carried the third to Regulus, setting it on the small table beside the chair.
Regulus looked at it.
"It won't bite," Aris said.
"I know what tea is," Regulus said, with the mild dignity of someone who had been making that particular correction more than he'd anticipated needing to.
