And it’s a thousand times more complicated than a simple break-in.
I wake at 4:53 AM, seven minutes before my alarm.
The penthouse is silent and dark as I pad toward the kitchen. These early morning hours are mine. The calm before the others wake. The space to breathe before the day closes in with its demands and complications.
Today’s ritual: coffee.
I move through the kitchen, setting up my station. Scale. Freshly roasted beans. Burr grinder set to a medium-fine consistency. Water heated to exactly 205 degrees Fahrenheit. French press cleaned and warmed.
Thirty grams of coffee for 500 milliliters of water. A ratio I’ve perfected myself. I pour the beans into the grinder, the soft whirring filling the quiet kitchen as they transform into grounds of uniform size.
I’m just measuring the water when I hear it. Soft footsteps on the tile. A slight change in the air. A scent that’s becoming as familiar to me as my own.
Zoe.
I don’t turn, just continue my preparations. But every nervein my body is suddenly alert, aware of her presence in a way that goes beyond normal senses.
“Morning,” she says, her voice soft and sleep-rough. “You’re up early.”
I glance over my shoulder. She’s standing at the edge of the hallway, hair tousled from sleep, wearing an oversized t-shirt that hits mid-thigh and reveals long, bare legs that make my mouth go dry. Her eyes are still heavy with sleep, and there’s a crease on her cheek from her pillow.
She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
“Always am,” I respond, turning back to my coffee. Keep it simple. Keep it controlled.
“Mmm,” she hums, moving into the kitchen. I can feel her getting closer, the heat of her, the scent. Clean and warm and justZoe. “Coffee?”
“Soon.”
She peers around me at my setup. “What’s all this?”
“Coffee.”
She snorts, a soft, amused sound. “I can see that. But you’re not using Rett’s fancy coffee machine. What’s with all the... equipment?”
I finally turn to face her. She’s standing closer than I thought she was, close enough that I can see the flecks of tan in her brown eyes.
“It’s a process,” I say.
She raises an eyebrow, a small, challenging smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “Is it? It’s just coffee.”
Just coffee. As if anything worth doing isn’t worth doing right.
I turn back to my station, adding the grounds to the warmed French press. “Go back to bed,” I suggest. “I’ll bring you a cup when it’s ready.”
Instead of leaving, she steps up beside me, her arm brushing against mine as she reaches for the bag of coffee beans. The contact sends a jolt through me.
“I think I’ll make my own,” she says, that smile still in her voice. “I have my own method.”
I pause, watching as she scoops beans directly into a separate grinder without measuring, without weighing.
I fail at keeping the horror from my voice. “What are you doing?”
She looks up, blinking with an innocent look on her face. “Making coffee.”
“That’s not how—” I stop myself, take a breath. “You need to measure.”
“Nope,” she says, popping the ‘p’ with a grin. “I just scoop until it feels right.”
