I brew a perfect cup, set it down, check my phone for what I swear is two seconds, and somehow the coffee has achieved the thermal properties of a snowball. I've started timing it. Thirty seconds. That's the half-life of my coffee's will to live. At this point I'm convinced my mug is actively working against me—like it signed a contract with the room temperature to betray me the moment I blink. Yesterday I held it the entire time and it stayed hot. So apparently I'm the mug's emotional support human now.