It was early morning, and Greyson groggily shuffled into the kitchen, rubbing the last remnants of sleep from his eyes. His usually sharp senses were dulled by the heavy cloud of fatigue hanging over him, but there was one thing that would set it all right: coffee.
He reached for the cabinet above the counter, where his sacred coffee stash awaited him every morning. Except… it didn’t.
Greyson blinked. Then blinked again, as if his sleep-addled brain couldn’t quite process what he was seeing—or rather, not seeing. The cabinet was completely empty. Not even a single, lonely bean in sight.
“No,” he whispered, staring at the empty shelf as if he could will the coffee to appear. But alas, it remained empty, mocking him with its barrenness.
His eye twitched.
He checked the counter. Then the pantry. Then the other cabinets. Nothing. Not even a decaf disaster in the back.
Greyson’s grip on the cabinet door tightened. “No coffee? How in the bloody hell is there no coffee?” His voice was low and dangerous, like a storm brewing in the distance.
He grabbed the tea tin from the shelf, almost knocking it over in his haste. “Tea it is, then,” he muttered under his breath, though it was clear the idea of substituting tea for coffee was not sitting well with him.
As he slammed the kettle onto the stove, a string of muttered British curses slipped from his mouth, growing louder with each passing second. “Bloody hell. Of all the flaming mornings to run out—*bollocks*! No coffee. What am I, a bloody peasant?” he growled, flicking on the stove with a bit more force than necessary.
He turned around to the kitchen table, glowering at the silence of the room, as if it had conspired against him. “This is a travesty. An absolute bloody outrage. Can’t even have a proper start to the day without the one thing that keeps me going,” he muttered, pacing back and forth while the kettle began to heat.
The kettle let out a faint whistle, and Greyson’s eye twitched again. “Oh, don’t you bloody rush me now,” he snapped at the kettle, though it was more him trying to regain control of the situation. He grabbed a mug and tossed a tea bag inside with a huff. “Tea... bloody tea. Might as well be drinking hot leaf water,” he grumbled, rolling his eyes.
Finally, the kettle boiled, and Greyson poured the steaming water into the mug, watching it swirl around the teabag with disdain. He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, as he waited for it to steep, muttering darkly the entire time.
“This is why the British lost their empire. Too much bloody tea and not enough coffee,” he growled, glaring at the mug as if it were personally responsible for the day’s injustice.
He took a cautious sip, his scowl deepening. “It’s not the bloody same.” Another sip. “I don’t care what they say, tea does not fix everything.”
Still grumbling, Greyson sat down at the kitchen table, cradling the mug in his hands like it could somehow make up for the travesty of the morning. He took another long, disgruntled sip.
At that moment, the door creaked open, and Sterling appeared, his hair tousled from sleep as he wandered into the kitchen. “Morning, love,” Sterling said, yawning. “What’s got you all riled up?”
Greyson shot him a look that could melt steel. “There’s no coffee.”
Sterling blinked, then glanced at the mug in Greyson’s hands. “So, you’re drinking tea?”
“*Obviously,*” Greyson replied, taking another angry sip. “Not that it’s helping. It’s like drinking disappointment.”
Sterling chuckled, leaning down to kiss the top of Greyson’s head before heading to the fridge. “You’re so dramatic,” he teased, grabbing a carton of milk.
Greyson grumbled something incoherent into his tea.
Sterling grabbed his own mug and sat down across from Greyson, sipping calmly. “You know, we could go get some coffee later. There’s a café down the road.”
Greyson looked up, his expression slightly less murderous at the prospect. “Really?”
Sterling nodded, smiling softly. “Really. And maybe next time, we won’t run out.”
Greyson sighed, rubbing his temples. “Fine. But if we ever run out again, I might actually lose it. Tea is no bloody substitute.”
Sterling chuckled, shaking his head as Greyson drained the last of his tea, still grumbling. “Bloody hell. What’s the world coming to?”
