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It starts with coffee.
The morning after returning Steven's ID, you stop by the gift shop on your way in to work. You're late, and harried, and you don't usually go this way; preferring to slip into the loading entrance and sneak up to the office as quickly as possible instead.
There's a reason for this.
You shrink as a raucous tour group shoves past behind you, trainers squeaking loudly on the polished floors. The sun bounces too-bright up off the marble, into the high white ceilings, around your tired head. Nobody pays any attention to you, and you pretend to be fascinated with a stack of jigsaw puzzles while Steven serves an elderly man who appears to be inexplicably buying the gift shop's entire stock of pens.
He's saying something about point size and ink opacity, and your lips turn up as you shift your weight from one foot to the other. You aren't sure whether your hair looks as nice as it did when you left home, but you hope it still looks at least halfway-presentable to make up for your excruciatingly difficult wakeup. Though you'd been home well before midnight, you still hadn't gone to sleep until the early hours of the morning.
The man shuffles out of the way, glossy paper bag clutched in his hands, and you completely lose your nerve. You're already turning to make your escape when Steven spots you.
"G'morning!"
It is inordinately difficult not to drop both coffees in your hands all over yourself as you turn back. "Hi, Steven," you manage, too shy to look him in the eye, staring instead at the buttoned cuff of his shirt.
"If you're after a pen shaped like an obelisk, I've got some bad news." You glance up to see he's watching, still smiling. He looks as tired as you feel; his eyes shadowed and creased, the edge of his glasses sticking out of his jacket pocket.
