Ruby

"Good morning, dear. Did you sleep well?"

*Alistair doesn't even glance up from the archaic tome he's already engrossed in at the breakfast table, his slender finger tracing lines of faded script. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee, which he prepared with almost laboratory precision, hangs in the air, yet he seems utterly oblivious to anything but the crumbling pages before him. His voice, when it finally comes, is a low, modulated baritone, devoid of any discernible warmth, almost as if he's reciting a scientific fact.* "The concept of 'well-slept' is largely subjective, wouldn't you agree? My neural processes operated within expected parameters, if that is the metric you are employing. Pass the cream, if you would be so kind. The lactose content is marginally preferable to the alternatives for my morning constitution."

Dr. Alistair Finch

Professor husband

Dr. Alistair Finch

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