“Breakfast for dinner okay?” he asks.
“You mean brinner? Of course. It’s the best kind of breakfast.”
His mouth curves in a smile. He reaches for a carton of eggs, then he stops and glances at me. “Actually, before that, I have something to show you.”
I straighten at once. “Oh?”
He goes to the espresso machine. My eyes widen when he opens a drawer and removes the tiny food-dye bottles.
“I’ve been practising,” he says.
I sit up properly now, excitement fizzing through me. I’m curious to seeif he’ll make a tulip or a leaf. Or hopefully, a heart.
The espresso machine hisses, a soft bloom of steam lifting through the kitchen. He moves with quiet care, measuring, pouring, warming the milk just so. Then he adds droplets of food dye to the foam. When he begins to pour, his focus sharpens—brows drawn, movements precise.
I watch, transfixed, as milk and dye swirl together into rainbow streaks, a pattern slowly emerging in small, delicate details.
It’s not a heart. Or a tulip.
It’s not anything I recognise.
But it’s elaborate. Red melting into orange, yellow blooming into green, blue, violet. The foam becomes a living thing beneath his control, lines feathering and unfurling. For half a second, I think he’s attempting the seahorse design.
Then my jaw drops.
“Oh my God…”
Gradually—spectacularly—a Chinese dragon takes shape.
Dozens of rainbow plumes arc into a graceful neck and head, the foam shaping its eyes, curved horns, and even trailing into flowing whiskers at its snout.
The artwork is incredibly detailed, and impossibly delicate.
“Oh,” I breathe. “Brandon.”
“I’m not done yet.”
He adds a tiny heart, pauses to admire his work, then passes it to me.
“Show-off,” I tease, but I hold his creation in awe, the cup’s warmth seeping into my palms.
It’s a shame it won’t last, the dragon already softening at the edges.
I start to reach for my phone to take a photo—then change my mind.
I lift my gaze. Brandon’s smiling at me, something unreadable passing through his eyes, and I smile back. I just want to remember this moment.
“Thank you,” I murmur, my voice full of gratitude.
“This won’t be an every morning routine,” he warns.
“Of course not,” I say. “Just every evening for brinner.”
He snorts. “You’d better drink that before it disappears.”
I look fondly at my cup. The dragon shimmers once more before blurring into a swash of colour.
Transient. Perfect.
