[Part of Koby considers it, thinking about the warm press of Quentin against his back, the protective circle of his body. He misses it, has for a few days now, and being close again just makes it ache more.

He settles for the moment, for the gentle knock of his knee to Quentin’s, prompting a little quirk of a smile.] She took it with six spoonfuls of sugar and one third of the cream in the pitcher. Not one fourth. One third. She could tell the difference.

[There's a definite change in Koby when he tells the story, the way he leans closer to Quentin, fidgets with the sugar packets, lining them up, the furrow between his brows.] That was my job. Most things were my job. That was -- before I enlisted.