I grab my hoodie off the chair, yank it over my head, and pad into the tiny hallway.
The kitchenette is barely functional; one burner that takes forever to heat, a sink the size of a salad bowl, and a counter just wide enough for the moka pot. I fill it with water, tamp down the coffee grounds, and set it on the stove.
While it hisses to life, I slice bread. Two thick pieces, butter, jam. Pack a banana and a protein bar into my gym bag for later. The moka pot gurgles, steam curling into the cold air. I pour myself half a cup, leave the rest for her.
Then I grab a sticky note from the magnetized pad on the fridge, scribble a quick line with the pen that's been there since I moved in.
Gym → hill. Coffee's ready. Wake me up indecently when I'm back.–N
I stick it to the counter where she'll see it first thing.
Then I sling my bag over my shoulder, grab my keys, and slip out the door.
The stairwell is freezing, my breath fogging as I take the steps two at a time. Outside, the air bites, sharp and clean, the kind of cold that makes you feel alive.
I picture her again, the silky fabric barely covering her shapely ass, her golden hair covering my pillow. I have this beautiful woman, my Élise, in my bed. Over all the luxury she had at home, the giant fish tank and marble halls, she chose to sleep in my messy bed. Perhaps, we were just overly dramatic yesterday. This was not such a bad idea.
I grin, pulling my hood up as I head toward the training center.
My brain's already on the hill. On speed. On getting stronger, faster, sharper.
And later, when I'm back, sore and sweaty, on what indecently might mean.
***
ÉLISE
I wake to an empty bed and the ghost of warmth where he was lying.
The duvet is hoarded on my side and when I stretch, rolling into the dent his body left, the sheets still smell like him. Musk and sleep and something faintly citrus from whatever soap he uses that costs nothing and somehow works better than anything I own.
I bury my face in his pillow for one indulgent second, then sit up, hair a mess, wearing his T-shirt because mine are all in the suitcase and his are everywhere.
The flat is silent except for the hum of the old fridge and the muffled clank of a radiator next door.
I pad barefoot into the tiny hall, toes curling against the cold floor. There's a shelf by the door cluttered with keys, a pile of unopened mail, a stack of race bibs rubber-banded together like trophies he forgot to frame. One junior trophy sits on the corner; small, cheap plastic, the kind you get for finishing third in a regional event when you're twelve. He kept it.
The kitchen counter is barely big enough for the moka pot, a butter dish, and a jar of jam. There's a sticky note stuck to the countertop, his handwriting loose and rushed.
Gym → hill. Coffee's ready. Wake me up indecently when I'm back.–N
I grin despite myself, peeling the note off and holding it like it's evidence of something I'm not ready to name.
Then I notice the moka pot sitting on the stove, half-full.
He made coffee. For me. Before dawn. Before his brain was even online.
The warmth in my chest is ridiculous and unearned, but I let it spread, anyway.
I try to pour myself a cup. The handle is scalding. I swear in French, grab a dish towel, and manage to tip the pot without spilling all of it.
Success.
I take a sip.
It's strong, slightly bitter, exactly the way I've learned to drink it here. No milk. No sugar. Just coffee and altitude and the faint smugness of a man who thinks leaving me a note counts as romance.
I lean against the counter, cradling the cup in both hands, and look around.
