Huh. This went badly. Tim's left-- damn it, he doesn't know. He doesn't know how he feels, thoughts at war with what he feels he'd be safe to say. And if he doesn't know then it must not be important.

(He knows the man's just throwing him a bone and it should incense him but what-- what is he supposed to do with this? The dude's just believed him like Tim's supposed to be trustworthy or something.)

Tim stares at his cup mournfully. Taps his foot against the floor. He shouldn't have talked about the schools. It's all blurred and murky, history butting heads with what should have been.

"Does lemon ginger chamomile tea usually help you sleep?" he asks.0