Down the hallway, I hear the soft shuffle of feet against hardwood. The floorboards creak lightly beneath her weight. The coffee fills the kitchen with a low hum and the faint scent of roasted bitterness. I pour a second cup and set it beside mine before she even reaches the doorway.
The woman who appears is not composed.
Her lilac robe is loosely tied, one shoulder slipping slightly. Her hair is a dark, disobedient cloud around her face. There’s a faint crease from the pillow across her cheek.
And she is, absurdly, devastating.
There is no artifice here. No calculated expression. Just a woman who has been awake too many nights in a row and who forgot, momentarily, that she has an audience.
She squints at the light, then at me. She croaks, “You’re up.”
“I am.”
She moves toward the counter slowly, as though gravity is slightly stronger this morning.
I slide the mug toward her. “I thought you might?—”
“Shh,” she says softly. “Coffee first. Always.” The authority in her voice is disproportionate to her current state of disarray.
I happily comply.
She wraps both hands around the mug and inhales the steam like it’s medicine. Her shoulders lower by degrees as the first sip registers.
I watch her carefully.
“You make good coffee,” she says after a moment.
“The hospital only makes bad coffee, so this is years of improvisation in the breakroom.”
She leans back against the counter, robe gaping slightly before she adjusts it absentmindedly. The movement is not seductive. It’s unconscious. “How long have you been up?”
“Long enough.”
“You didn’t wake me.”
“You were sleeping.”
She studies me over the rim of the mug. “Which is why you would have needed to wake me up.” The “dummy” is implied by her tone.
“You seemed deeply unconscious, so I thought better of waking you.”
“That’s unusually considerate.”
“I am occasionally considerate.”
She smiles faintly.
There is something profoundly domestic about this moment. No urgency. No tension. Just shared caffeine. It unsettles me to my core because it’s so damned comfortable.
There’s no bullshit with Perry. I like the way she occupies space without apology. I like the way she doesn’t attempt to charm me in the morning. There’s no show, no carefully chosen words. She’s merely herself.
I realize, with uneasy clarity, that I want to see this version of her again. Frequently.
“Good date?” she asks suddenly.
“Yeah. You?”
She takes another sip, eyes closing briefly. “It was the best one I’ve had in years.”
