#a familiar face

How about a chapter instead of a Sunday snippet? I love this story, and an update is far overdue!  As a short refresher since I took so long (apologies!), your apartment has been broken into and ransacked. Ryan is with you and helps you sift through the wreckage as much as he is able. But you have a confession to make: you know who is the culprit, and you can’t hide the truth anymore.  (Parts 1-6 can be found on mymasterlist!

Rating: PG for a little steaminess

Word count: 3390 (Because Ryan gets to me and I lose any and all self-control.)

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Enjoy, and thanks for reading!

Ryan’s eyes crinkled up at the edges when he smiled. It was something you hadn’t discovered early on, like the pensive look that darkened his eyes sometimes or the way their color seemed to dance when he talked about music and places he’d been, things he’d seen. He was always wearing that tattered khaki hat, and the bill cast a shadow over his eyes, shrouding little things from view.

But that night, between guitar picking with calloused fingertips and singing that bursted from his soul, you and Ryan talked; you joked and laughed and the back-and-forth you both indulged in lasted longer than any of your previous conversations had. With Ryan’s overgrown hair brushed back, the only thing obstructing his eyes at times was a chunk of long bangs falling over his forehead. It wasn’t enough, however, to hide those eye crinkles when he laughed, framed by long, dark eyelashes. It was a small feature of his that was only showcased in certain instances, and one that most people wouldn’t notice. But, every time it happened, you felt your heart flip, the way it had just before the cozy house set back deep in the woods had been filled with music.

Your mind kept replaying the melody of the original song he’d played for you. It had stirred something deep inside of you, ignited a place within yourself that you’d never known existed. 

“When did you write Southbound?” Your questions were becoming more personal, and the startling part, the part that made you the happiest, was that Ryan didn’t seem to mind answering them, nor did he seem hesitant to ask questions of his own. “What sparked that melody, those words?”

Ryan set his guitar down gently, leaning the front of the old acoustic against the wall, neck and peg board supporting the instrument. He regarded your face, the glint of genuine curiosity shining in your eyes. He was attentive to the way you were sitting, leaning forward and eager to hear more of his story. 

He’d met many people over the time he’d spent on the roads, living life the way he saw fit. Some of them had been curious about his lifestyle, how long he’d been playing, that sort of thing. He’d met people who had pried for details, almost as if a disguised predator hunting for prey. But you… you were the first person he’d encountered that was interested in more than why he didn’t use plastic guitar picks, but chose thumb and finger picks instead. Ryan wasn’t used to people being interested in him as a person. He was conditioned to keeping to himself, allowing lips curled in disgust at his clothes, rust-stained or dirtied in places from hopping trains,  to roll off his back. He smiled, one of those crooked, small quirks of his lips that he tended to lean toward when he was feeling shy. But it didn’t keep him from answering, and truthfully.

“Just keepin’ myself occupied on trains.  Some’a those rides are long and I use the time to practice, to play.” He flexed his fingers, and you looked down to see the ink decorating his knuckles. That was another story you’d love to hear, what those tattoos meant to him, what they stood for. “I found a melody I liked, kept playin’ around with it, the tuning, the speed, the pickin’. It was a while before the words came. My old notebook is more scratched through words than anythin’ else.”

He looked at you, perched on the edge of the old vintage couch, some of the fabric beginning to wear. He caught your eyes and held your gaze for a lingering moment, andl his focus was drawn downward to your lips. He forced himself to not stare, to continue with his story. 

“But the words came, and I liked ‘em alright. They fit when I paired the lyrics with the music. For a long time, I had two verses, the strumming in the middle, and that was it. Wasn’t until the thick of the winter when I was inspired to finish.”

Ryan stopped there. You wanted to ask him what had inspired him to turn the song in the specific direction it had gone. You wanted to ask him how autobiographical the song was, the parts about leaving home— where home had been, if he’d ever tried to find a permanent place he could be content in. He’d sung a line or so nodding to drinking, and you couldn’t help but feel a strong pull at your heartstrings, and the solemn weight that settled in your chest. Ryan hadn’t had an easy life. 

Instead of responding with words, you surveyed Ryan’s face. He was still just across from you, the fire he’d built still crackling in the fireplace. You felt a chill and lifted your sock-clad feet to the bottom cushion of the sofa you’d been occupying for the evening, hugging your knees to your chest. 

A comfortable silence settled between the two of you, You became lost in thought, with the knowledge that tomorrow would be another very long day. You were making a mental list of things to take care of when Ryan’s voice brought you back to the present. It was such a welcome distraction.  

“Tell me about the diner.” He spoke softly, not much louder than the crackling of the blazing fire he’d built. Standing from where you’d been lounging, you moved to the heart again to toast before the fire. It was difficult to stay still, difficult to focus on anything other than the questions making endless rounds through your head, overwhelming your mind. You could focus on Ryan, though. The diner. You smiled genuinely. My comfort. My home.  It felt like, somehow, Ryan knew how much the diner meant to you… and he did. It was impossible to miss when you were there, working non-stop but never without a smile, never too busy to indulge a patron in warm conversation. It was your safe haven.

“My grandparents opened up the place decades ago,” you started. You paused for a moment and relished the warmth radiating over your back. “They snatched it up with a down payment and a lump sum  of pre-payment of the lease before the building had an interior, when it was just a shell of brick. They knew it would be the perfect location for the business they’d dreamt of opening.” You caught Ryan’s eyes, and there was a smile there, matching the one on his lips as well as your own. “It’s like the American Dream,” you laughed, and continued. “My parents took over…” 

And just as quickly as your grin had come, it vanished with a darkening of your eyes. The shock and bewilderment you’d felt in discovering the state of your apartment was transitioning into outright anger. You could kill your brother. And the thought of him intruding your mind– just like the way he’d intruded your apartment, your life once again– reminded you that Ryan still had no idea about what you knew. What had actually happened. 

“And that brings us here,” you finally continued. “I had money saved up, a nice amount. Cash, mostly from tips, so I could buy that building outright when it’s time, take over when my parents grew tired.” You swallowed hard, shoving down the lump in your throat that had been returning unwelcome throughout the evening and night. A slight look of contempt twisted your features, and your eyes began to prickle. You knew what was coming; it was inevitable. “For years, I’ve measured my life in coffee spoons, packs of sweetener and powdered creamer. Working toward that goal is my whole life, and I wouldn’t trade the double shifts or overtime for the world, but right now? I have nothing to show for it.” Hot tears stung your face, and you wiped them away angrily as you gathered the courage to look at Ryan. His gaze was centered on you already, stunningly intense. And you were hit with a realization then:  that if anyone could understand what it was like to have nothing—  next to no money, no home, a sparse amount of belongings— it was Ryan. 

He had no permanent home. You were fairly positive he’d had his fair share of days with little to no money, and everything he owned fit in his pack, with the exception of his guitar. The peace you felt from your epiphany thawed your anger. Your tears were tapering. Sniffing quietly, you moved to the side as Ryan came to tend to the fire. A feeling of understanding hung in the air between the two of you as Ryan added some more kindling to the flames. Your eyes alternated between his movements and the dance of dark shadow with orange firelight moving over his features. You were mesmerized. 

“I know who did it.” Your voice was barely more than a whisper and you were hyper-aware of your heart beating wildly beneath the safety of your rib cage. Ryan brushed his hands together and stood upright, his eyes regarding as he did so. He didn’t seem to be angry at all, but his curiosity was apparent. He was quiet for a moment, but finally answered with a slight nod, the silence remaining. You opened your mouth to apologize again, your self-loathing over lying by omission rising by the minute, but Ryan beat you to the punch.

“ ‘S’not much of my business, I reckon, but you…” He looked at you with a seriousness you’d never expect from him, and your eyes widened with anticipation and dread. “Are you safe, Y/N?” Ryan’s warm, dark eyes were round with concern, and not a touch of anger was present. All you saw was worry and care.

You nodded in response and cast your eyes downward. “It is your business,” you assured him. It’s your business. You were there and you… you helped me bear the brunt of it all. “And I’m sorry, Ryan. Feeling shame isn’t an excuse to lie. Nothing is.” For the first time, you were nervous in front of him, not because of how he made you feel, but because you’d deceived him. If he’d had any trust in you– which you thought he might– you’d taken advantage of that.  “I don’t want you to get involved in my mess.” Looking up at him, you locked your eyes with his. He had no further reason to trust you, not in your opinion, but you hoped he’d be able to see the honesty that you were finally giving him, and that he deserved. “You’ve been a light in my life since you’ve been around, and I don’t want to dim that, not while you’re still here casting that glow.” Your cheeks burned at the realization of how corny your words sounded, but corny or not, they were absolute truth.

Closing the short distance between you, Ryan gently took one of your hands in his, tangling his long fingers with yours. He just looked at you for a few seconds, and then, he kissed you with care. His lips were soft against yours, his kiss light, lingering, laced with an air of urgency. One hand cupped your cheek and the other wrapped around your hand just a bit tighter, your fingers lacing with his. He kissed you again, this time with an added tenacity, yet somehow still chaste. When he pulled back to look at you, both for a reaction and to marvel at your beauty, you noticed his chestnut eyes had darkened a shade or two. Your hands were still locked together and you couldn’t seem to draw in a full, steady breath. You got lost in the warmth of his eyes for a moment before your gaze fell to his lips, already craving another taste. 

“I’m sorry, Y/N, I shouldn’t ‘ve—“ You shook your head once and leaned in again, interrupting his very unnecessary apology. The way Ryan kissed was something you’d never experienced before. It was all the evidence you needed to achor the idea that Ryan didn’t need words. His soul was naked when he strummed the steel strings of his guitar, his emotions were on full display in his eyes, and his heart was unmistakably felt in his kiss. It was extraordinary and spellbinding. It was absolute and genuine and something that you wanted to take hold of, grasp tightly, and keep with you. But you knew, instead, eventually, you’ d have to let go. And much sooner, you suspected, than you’d like.

It had been foolish to allow yourself to grow attached to a stranger you may never see again, but you allowed yourself the effort to attempt rationalizing what was serendipitous. It wasn’t lost on you that doing so was a glaring paradox, but what were the chances of Ryan returning to your small town in the first place? You knew now that the reason was Georgie, but that posed another question: what were the chances of you remembering Ryan specifically? Buskers passed through all the time, on their way to or coming from the city. You were accustomed to music floating through the air on your way to the diner when you didn’t have the opening shift, but Ryan’s music wasn’t just a nice tune you’d enjoyed on your way to work. Ryan’s music, his style and way of playing, his voice smooth as honey but rough with passion, wasn’t just music– it was a force. Ryan in himself was a force, and in the most gentle, remarkable way. 

You pulled back reluctantly, your lips on fire and cheeks ablaze. You’d had one hell of a day, and your emotions were anything but regulated. The last thing you wanted to do was something out of your character, to tarnish your time with Ryan by doing something that, in hindsight, wouldn’t hold a meaning. You opened your eyes to see Ryan studying your face, and he smiled that boyish, crooked quirk of his lips— his incredible lips— that made your heart do somersaults. 

“I’ve been wantin’ to do that for awhile,” he admitted, a slight chuckle accompanying his confession. You laughed, shaking your head more in disbelief than anything else  Ryan brushed his calloused fingertips softly over your forehead, gently curling a few wayward strands of your hair behind your ear. 

“How did you wait so long? I’m irresistible.” You dissolved into laughter and rolled your eyes dramatically, taking him by the hand and leading him the few steps back to the old loveseat you’d claimed as yours earlier in the evening. He followed suit easily, pulling you down to sit on one cushion as he sat on the other. 

“You are,” he told you, but there was no trace of laughter in his voice. His shadow of a smile held affection instead of humor. “You’ve made my time here more’n just playing a couple songs with Georgie. He’s off somewhere now, an’ me? I’m still here.”

It was a simple thing to say, obvious in nature but not in the way Ryan had said it. The connotation in his voice and what he meant was stunning. For a moment, you were quiet, turning his words over in your head. Then, you grinned shyly. 

“You’re something else, Ryan Brenner.” It was something he’d said to you many times, and it had grown into a habit, an inside joke. Turning toward him, you took both of his hands and your expression grew serious. “I owe you an explanation,” you started carefully, “But first I want to thank you for bringing such sunshine into my life since you’ve been here. I always look forward to work, but I found myself not dreading the walk there in the cold. I wanted to make sure to bring you some sort of warmth as thanks, even if it was just a cup of coffee during the day… something pulled me toward you, Ryan, And not for any reason other than how genuine you are. You’re unapologetic in who you are, and there’s no pretense you carry around with you. People like you are all but impossible to come by.”

Now that you were talking, really talking and free of anxiety, you couldn’t stop. Words just came pouring out in bursts with barely a moment between. You could talk to Ryan about how you felt about him for an hour, but you needed to get back to the truth and finish the conversation you’d started earlier. In your moment’s pause,Ryan took advantage of your silence and leaned toward you, pressing his lips to yours again softly, almost as if asking permission.

You hummed slightly against his lips, and you felt the warmth of his palm radiating through the material of your shirt. He pressed his hand to the small of your back, drawing you closer. Again, he gifted you with his mouth against yours, gently coaxing your lips open with his tongue, deepening the kiss. Your arm found its way over his shoulder, your hand curling around his neck and fingers getting lost in the long, dark hair there. You’d easily gotten yourself lost in Ryan, and consciously so. Kissing Ryan felt like home. 

When he broke away, his eyes were dark with desire, yet he simply rested his forehead against yours, inhaling deeply and closing his eyes briefly. You slowly withdrew your fingers from his hair, your arm from his neck and shoulder, but Ryan’s hand remained on your back. The pressure was light, however, and he was gently running his fingertips up and down the middle of your back, straight over the line of your spine. You closed your eyes at first, relishing in his touch, feeling goosebumps pop up atop your skin. You opened your eyes as you felt him remove his forehead from yours, and you focused your gaze downward. Turning over his hand, you traced your index fingers over the tattoos, vertical lines between his middle and lower knuckles.

“It was my brother.” Finally confessing your truth, your voice was tiny, barely audible, and you felt the fall of your heart into the pit of your stomach. Nerves and shame burrowed there as well and spread like venom throughout your body. Your posture changed, your shoulders tense as you hunched into yourself unconsciously. A bitter taste was on your tongue, and that lump had lodged itself in your throat again, rendering your voice useless. You swallowed past it again, and you looked up at Ryan, knowing a simple glance could give you the courage you needed. His eyes were full of warmth and gentle encouragement, and his palm flattened over your back, rubbing gentle circles in effort to soothe you. 

Noel was at rock bottom. Because you’d been forced to change your locks and not give him a key, he’d resorted to breaking down your door and destroying your apartment searching for money that he either owed or needed to sustain his habit. That strength and effort, that apparent absence of remorse in someone who you’d trusted implicitly for years cut you like a knife, but more than that, it terrified you. Your brother had turned into a stranger. 

“I don’t know if I’m safe anymore, Ryan.” You looked up at him in a loss. “I don’t know where to go from here.”

Ryan was not a violent man, but at that moment, he felt a white hot anger for the man who had done this to you, your brother, a man he didn’t even know and had never laid eyes on. A man he hadn’t known existed until two minutes ago. But he was concentrating on what didn’t matter, and he needed to reroute that.Youmattered.You were all that mattered to him in that moment, your peace of mind and your safety. Dipping his head, he pressed a kiss to the top of your head and indulged in inhaling the scent of your shampoo.

“We’re gonna figure it, okay? I promise you. I’mma be right here ‘till we do.” He paused and placed his index finger under your chin, drawing your face upward gently and catching your eye. Ryan needed you to see his sincerity. “I’m not goin’ anywhere, Y/N. We’re in this together, you and me.”

Who wants a little peek into the life of our favorite musician to brighten their Monday? Look no further! I hope y’all enjoy, and as always, thank you for reading!

Image prompt 6:Ryan Brenner x reader (requested by @thisisparadisemylove)

Rating: PG due to absolute and adorable fluff.

Word count:1946

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This is related to (later down the line) A Familiar Face, which can be found in my masterlist.

The air in the city was dense and heavy. Before you could take anything in, to appreciate your time there, you had to train your lungs to breathe in the atmosphere; it was imperative to get acclimated to the moisture that hung invisibly around you. It was so thick, the humidity was almost strangling.

But when you hit that point where you could breathe again, to inhale that air with ease, the sensations surrounding you were breathtaking. 

The uneven, crumbling brick paving the sidewalks were littered with people: tourists with strands of colorful beads hanging from their necks, carrying styrofoam cups; older couples holding hands while taking leisurely strolls; giggling teenagers ducking into shops with signs in the windows boasting shrunken heads and Voodoo dolls. The air carried with it succulent smells from various restaurants, and dance troupes occupied the middle of narrow streets to entertain. People spray-painted in metallic tones from head to toe stood frozen like statues, so still it was as if they weren’t breathing. Depending which street you were on, the energy around you would flip between an electric buzz or a warm leisure–  the kind that was the reason behind the city being coined The Big Easy. 

But one constant in New Orleans, whether in the French Quarter, down Magazine Street, or lost just beyond the corner of Decatur and St. Peters’ expanse of the French Market—crowded with vendors selling silver jewelry or art, fresh vegetables and homemade soaps offered in booths at the farmers’ market further down the street, or finding hidden treasures buried deep at the flea market adjacent to the famous Cafe du Monde— was the music. 

Street performers playing various flavors of music occupied almost every street corner in the New Orleans area. But Royal Street— Ryan had told you it was pronounced roy-AL, like a duo of two male names sewn together— that was where the real music was, the music with heart and soul and life, no matter the sweltering heat and thick, suffocating humidity. Thirteen blocks through the French Quarter and several leading down toward Frenchman Street was the city’s epicenter of live music. It was where Ryan wanted to take you. 

“There’re all types of musicians down here, Y/N,” Ryan said, excitement apparent. Soft-spoken by default unless he was singing, full-bodied and soul on fire, Ryan’s smooth, soft drawl was a pleasure to hear, even if you had to strain to hear sometimes. But the enthusiasm of what he was set to explore with you— to share with you— added volume to his voice, thickened his drawl just a touch, and shifted his intonation to the point that his words sounded more like song than speak. “Jazz is the front-runner but you name it, and you’re goin’ to hear it.  I reckon there ain’t a place like it anywhere else in the world.”

Ryan tore his eyes from a two-story brick building, balconies adored by wrought-iron and punctuated with lush hanging plants. You’d read that most of the businesses in this part of the city hailed in structures that were built centuries ago. You smiled as your attention turned to Ryan’s face, lit up with a wide, Cheshire-like grin. His happiness was your happiness, and when he gifted you with that big, toothy, genuine smile,, you felt like a Mega Millions winner. You knew you’d hit the jackpot with this man. 

He’d ditched his pack in the bed and breakfast you’d booked days before, despite his protests.

”This was my idea, Y/N. “

“But I wanted to come.”

Slowly nodding his head in agreement,  Ryan gently pointed out, “I asked you to join me—“

“And I accepted.”

He eyed you with his eyebrows quirked, and you continued. “You let me come with you, and youlet me live life your way for a few days. It’s been exhilarating and uncertain and I feel more alive than I have in a long time.” Your eyes were full of sincerity, and Ryan took a few steps toward you, only stopping as stood right in front of you. He reached to tuck your hair behind your ear. “So letme find us a warm bed to sleep in and cold air conditioning to lay under.”

Finally, he conceded. “If that’s what you want, Y/N, you know you got it. But I gotta tell you, it’s not a usual part of my way of livin’.”

You bit your bottom lip thoughtfully and narrowed your eyes playfully. “Maybe it’s your way of livin’ with me.”

He’d left his pack, but still carried his guitar case. His tattooed fingers were laced with yours as the two of you walked; you had a destination: the flea market just a few blocks away. But first, Ryan wanted to take a slight detour. 

“I really want to experience the music. Appreciate it. Take our time, if that’s alright.” 

You’d nodded immediately, agreeing with him. You wanted the same thing, wanted to be there with Ryan and join him in his elation and opinions and feel a bit of that love he felt for music. 

“And I know you want to go to the flea market—“

“I need to go to the flea market.” You interjected, and he laughed. You shrugged. and he shook his head 

“You’re somethin’ else.” The slight smell of coffee wafted through the air, and as the smell became stronger, it took on an almost sweet scent. Applause broke out from somewhere ahead of you, momentarily drowning out an increasingly loud dissonance of chatter. 

“You know, I think you’ve told me that before. Once or twice.” Before Ryan could answer, you found yourselves standing just outside the open-air, renowned Cafe du Monde. The scent, the chatter, and the perfect, faraway backdrop of a nearby trumpeter’s solo version of When the Saints Go Marching In was classic New Orleans. You felt a sense of nostalgia wash over you, and you knew at that exact moment that this city, so full of culture and history, art and Cajun food, voodoo and ghost tours, jazz and zydeco and blues and swing and swamp pop— this city meant something to you, and it was your first time visiting. 

Ryan gently led you to an occupied table, smack in the middle of the cafe. He pulled out your chair for you with a boyish smile before sitting in the chair across the small table, guitar case close by his side. He leaned forward on his elbows so you could hear over the noise. 

“The menu’s not your traditional menu,” Ryan warned you. His eyes danced from across the table, and he added, “Not that New Orleans skimps on tradition, but they do it their own way. ‘S their style.”

You found yourself leaning in as well, caught you in the cadence of Ryan’s voice as well as his words. Ryan wasn’t a huge talker, he didn’t need to be, but when he got on a roll about music or traveling or something that he was passionate about, he spoke up more than usual and you loved those moments. This was one of them. 

“ ‘Bout a half-dozen choices to choose from. It’s slim pickin’s, but you can’t go wrong with what they’re offerin’.”” Ryan had been to New Orleans many times; there was just no other place like it. He held up his left hand, calloused fingertips and vertical lines inked between mid and lower knuckles of each finger. “You’ve got coffee—cafe au lait. Fresh-squeezed orange juice, milk…”

You had started to shake your head as Ryan went on. He stopped before he rattled off a variety of sodas and coffee over ice; he knew what you were saying without words, and had known as much before he spoke. The two of you shared a smile, intimate with understanding. Opening your mouth to share a sentiment, you were stalled as a waitress appeared tableside, vibrant purple hair pulled back and piled atop her head. She was around your age and looked frazzled. You smiled at her. Many days at the diner had you in the same state at some point. 

“A cafe au lait and order of beignets, please,” Ryan said politely, inclining his chin to order while looking at the server, not just rattling off what he wanted. He was always attentive, and actually talking to someone rather than at them was something you valued at work. Ryan just did so naturally without a second thought. “Same for my girl here.” He looked at you adoringly with an expression asking for confirmation.

“You got it,” you said, meeting Ryan’s eyes for a beat of time, then looking to the waitress and nodding appreciatively. “Thank you.” 

In his typical fashion, Ryan followed immediately, offering the woman a small smile. “Thank you, ma’am.”

When she turned to walk away and Ryan’s attention was yours again, he immediately noticed the way the corners of your lips turned upward. He looked at you as you appreciated his features from across the table. 

“I’ll wait,” he teased gently. Leaning back in his chair, his long legs stretched out as much as possible beneath the table without invading your space, you nudged his knee with your own. 

“Wait for what?” It was a rhetorical question; it was all in your expression, the way you sometimes got as quiet as Ryan himself and just looked at him like he hung the moon. Ryan had called you his girl, and you supposed it was true, but to hear him say it was another thing entirely. He had you reeling. It took you a moment to get back on track. “I was just thinking about your thank you ma’am. How it sounded familiar, and how someone else is bringing us coffee instead of me bringing it to you… which, in hindsight,  is why we’re here. Together. It’s all come full circle in a sense.”

It seemed like a lifetime ago. As you and Ryan enjoyed your beignets, you relished in little memories, and that was what made your relationship so special. Ryan had taught you just how important simplicity was. He laughed as you balked, tasting your cafe au lait without adding sugar first, forgetting there was chicory in the drink. You stood from your chair to brush powdered sugar from a beignet out of the scruff on his chin. He taught you the difference between zydeco and swamp pop, and insisted on paying for your coffee and beignets. 

“There you go again, Ryan Brenner. Fighting me over sweets and tips, bringing it right back to the beginning. You’d finally made it to the flea market, but before you could walk in, he wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you close, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. You let out a sigh.

“I like the present much better, Y/N,” he said, speaking into your ear. Your shoulder shrugged involuntary, his whiskers and breath tickling your ear.  “The beginning was real nice, but this,” he paused, pressing his lips to your temple, “What we have now, it’s been on my mind since that first cup of coffee.” You looked up at him with a look of awe; it was a confession he’d never made before, and it felt like the perfect moment for him to do so, there in this huge flea market in New Orleans. You had words on the tip of your tongue, but they were stuck there. 

When you didn’t reply, Ryan just smiled down at you. It was one of those small, simple, yet significant moments. You’d had so many with him. He let his arm fall from your waist to link his fingers with yours again, leading your further inside. “You make a damn good cup of coffee, Y/N.”