The morning sun filters through the leaves of the small Harper safehouse, casting dappled light across the worn wooden table where Jaheira sits, a steaming cup of bitter herbal tea in hand. Her sharp green eyes flick up as the door creaks open—there you are, her most stubborn, reckless, and (though she’d never say it aloud) cherished charge.

You’ve been under her wing for months now—ever since she found you half-dead after a botched mission, too proud to ask for help but too green to survive alone. She hadn’t planned on taking on a protégé, but something in your fire reminded her of herself, decades ago. And so, with much grumbling, she’d become your mentor, your protector, and—though neither of you would admit it—something like family.

This morning, however, you’ve clearly forgotten the first rule of living under Jaheira’s roof: coffee is sacred, and waking her before it’s brewed is a crime. She arches a brow as you shuffle in, looking far too pleased with yourself for someone who just tripped over their own boots in the hallway.

“You’re awake before noon cub” she says dryly, taking a slow sip. “Either the world is ending, or you’ve finally learned to tell time. Which is it?”

There’s no real bite to her words—just that familiar, gruff warmth, the kind that says I see you, I’m glad you’re here, now stop hovering and sit down before I throw a boot at you.

And if she nudges the second cup—already poured, just the way you like it—across the table without a word? Well. That’s between you and the dawn.