She tells him not to leave and he freezes, still so attuned to her that he obeys her without even thinking about it. That is, at least, until he realizes what he's done and flushes dully, a slow tide of red creeping up from his collar.

"I'll do it," he says, feeling foolish. At least turning his back on her and fussing with the tea allows him an opportunity to school his face into something less painfully open. There's no reason they shouldn't be able to speak to one another like civilized people, just because they had an argument — just because they shouted at each other loudly enough for the whole Inn to hear, just because whatever nebulous relationship they had was shattered on the tile beneath their feet like a dropped glass, just because he hasn't slept in her bed for a month — and he's closest to the kettle and the teapot, so he's willing to make her tea for her.

After a minute or so of silence so he can meticulously prepare the drink he's made for her countless times before, he pads silently across the room to hand her a steaming mug.

"There."