“Oh, Augustus. Good morning. I am cooking a soup for your hangover. Just wait a while, it is almost done,” Rion mumbled instinctively as he felt a nearing presence behind his back, heard steps against the marble he knew whose were.
The steps were heavy, as if lidded. Slow and careful, but also rash at the same time. There was a familiar rhythm with the way he walked, too, as if he was exerting a certain beat in his every move.
“Did you drink your meds already?” he asked again out of concern, still without looking toward the other direction, “I left a glass of water and a pill above your bedside tab—”
“Yes. Yes, I did drink it,” Augustus replied lowly. He positioned himself in one of the stools in the kitchen. Then proceeded to caress his temple to ease the throb in his head at the very
