Yet, says a poisonous little voice in the back of Huvrye's mind, but he ignores it for now. Mark knows, and he's not leaving, and the acid burn in Huvrye's chest is slowly starting to subside. It's okay. For now, it's okay.
(It might not be okay later. He'll take 'for now.')
He's still listening - he doesn't correct 'grew up,' at least not yet - and while the leadup to whatever question this is going to be is making him nervous, he still trusts Mark. "Okay."
...though evidently trusting Mark doesn't prevent him from being utterly blindsided by that question. For the second time today, he's left blinking and staring at Mark as he tries to gather his thoughts. What coffee is his favorite? What does that have to do with anything?
But Mark asked him to take it seriously, and he does, turning the question over in his head. He's had a lot of different coffees since he'd arrived here, to the point where he doesn't remember all of them. Which one is his favorite?
"There's one they make downstairs," he finally says. "It's mostly regular coffee, but it's got salted caramel in it. I think that one's my favorite." It's the first coffee he'd had that had been flavored (and better quality than anything he could get back in Lasardhi), and it had stuck with him. It had also become his regular order downstairs, to the point where the people in the coffee shop would start prepping it for him when they saw him in line.
He has to ask, though. He shouldn't be pushing, but he needs to know. "Why?"
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Yet, says a poisonous little voice in the back of Huvrye's mind, but he ignores it for now. Mark knows, and he's not leaving, and the acid burn in Huvrye's chest is slowly starting to subside. It's okay. For now, it's okay.
(It might not be okay later. He'll take 'for now.')
He's still listening - he doesn't correct 'grew up,' at least not yet - and while the leadup to whatever question this is going to be is making him nervous, he still trusts Mark. "Okay."
...though evidently trusting Mark doesn't prevent him from being utterly blindsided by that question. For the second time today, he's left blinking and staring at Mark as he tries to gather his thoughts. What coffee is his favorite? What does that have to do with anything?
But Mark asked him to take it seriously, and he does, turning the question over in his head. He's had a lot of different coffees since he'd arrived here, to the point where he doesn't remember all of them. Which one is his favorite?
"There's one they make downstairs," he finally says. "It's mostly regular coffee, but it's got salted caramel in it. I think that one's my favorite." It's the first coffee he'd had that had been flavored (and better quality than anything he could get back in Lasardhi), and it had stuck with him. It had also become his regular order downstairs, to the point where the people in the coffee shop would start prepping it for him when they saw him in line.
He has to ask, though. He shouldn't be pushing, but he needs to know. "Why?"