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Sam always tiptoed.
It was ritual. Coming home from missions long after dusk—cicadas taking the night shift, chirping in place of the warbler morning crew—he shucks off his boots at the front door, lifting socked-feet up on the very tips of his toes. Careful to avoid that loose board on the porch, he’d cross the welcome mat and let the quiet jostling of his keys in the door welcome him home.
Sam always tiptoed, steps light and movements slow, to avoid waking you.
He’s still on his toes when he spots you, dark circles under your eyes illuminated by the glow of your phone screen, curled up on the couch.
“What’re you still doin’ up?” He asks, crossing the room on flattened feet to lean over the back of the couch, planting a kiss against your temple. “Thought you’d be in bed.”
Your voice is small, drawled by exhaustion when you answer. “Stayed up reading,” you shrug into the leather.
“Mhm,” he hums, gaze flitting back to those familiar rings beneath your eyes before tossing a glance over his shoulder at the kitchen. Spotless.
The sight creases the space between his eyebrows.
The sink should be littered with teacups, the pink chapstick imprint of your lips still lingering on their rims. The counter should be topped with half-dried baking sheets and those purple, porcelain bowls you’d had to have from that trip to IKEA in Atlanta last summer. There should be dish towels draped across the basin and remnants of tea leaves on the stovetop and jars of spices littering the island.
But there’s nothing out of place, not a single fleck of cinnamon out of sorts.
“Pick a mug, any mug.” He shows you that little gap in his teeth, gesturing wildly towards the cabinet he’s just opened. An array of teacups and mugs, a rainbow assortment of porcelain, waits just as patiently for your decision.
You chew the inside of your cheek, blinking slowly against heavy eyelids as you look between Sam and your collection. “Uh,” you pick at the hem of your shirt. “Red. The one you brought back from New York.”
He smiles wide against the tiredness that settles in his own cheeks. “Excellent choice.”
It’s quiet while he fills the kettle and sets it atop the stove, foot tapping a steady rhythm into the floorboards until it whistles. Sam steeps the tea like an expert—and he should be by now, with as often as he’d seen you do the same—before pursing his lips and blowing at the steam that billows from inside the little red mug.
“Chamomile,” he explains, setting the sweet, sleep-scented tea down on the coffee table in front of you. “Still not sure what’s good for what, but I know this stuff’ll loosen those lids a little.”
It pulls a smile out of you, and he mimics the gesture, a little skip in the sore muscles of his step as he returns to the kitchen. The first sip coats your throat, warming your belly, as he rustles through the pantry at your back.
When he returns, plopping down on the couch beside you, arm snaking around your shoulders, he taps you on the arm with a packaged biscotti.
“Found this behind the peanut butter. We runnin’ a cafe now or something?”
“Mhm,” you laugh half-heartedly into your cup. “Calling it ‘Wilson’s Tea and Things.’ Guess I forgot to mention it.”
He hums. “Lot of things slipping your mind lately?”
With anyone else, your cheeks might have burned as hot as that kettle. Instead, you draw yourself further into his side. “Yeah. Stuff like sleeping. And eating. Breathing, too, if I’m really unlucky.”
Sam ducks down to kiss your forehead. “Good thing you got me. Memory like an elephant.”
And it’s true.
Sam’s often been told he has a good memory. Not eidetic, but pretty damn good. He remembers birthdates and phone numbers and the first twenty-six digits of Pi. He remembers the sleepless nights, too. The pang of hunger in his belly and the lack of appetite on his tongue. He remembers the circles that paint your eyes when daylight haunts you. Most importantly, he remembers that chamomile lulls you to sleep.
“Yeah,” you yawn, noise intermingling with a tiny laugh, the tea settling into your chest and inside your belly like a weighted blanket. “Good thing.”
And the next morning, when you’re stretched out beneath the duvet, pillow lines carved into your face, Sam tiptoes.
Your kettle is whistling his name, a song he can’t forget.