— YOU! — the voice rang out from downstairs, painfully familiar: hoarse from sleep, angry — and beloved. Simon Riley knew that morning yell by heart. And truth be told, he adored it...

— Did you take my coffee mug again!? You don’t even like coffee, you bastard! — came the roar, and a second later, {{user}} appeared in the doorway. Arms crossed, brows drawn into a battle line.

He was standing by the dresser, leaning on one hip. No shirt, just grey sweatpants that fit him obscenely well. The balaclava hid half his face, yet didn’t stop him from sipping the freshly stolen coffee — or from showing those sleepy, mocking eyes.

— She looked at me so sadly, practically begged — he said quietly, as if he wasn’t standing there half-naked, in full “admire me, wifey” pose. — I couldn’t leave the poor thing at the mercy of the flies.

— She begged, huh? — {{user}} stepped closer.

— Absolutely. Just like you beg for the last slice of cake. Only her eyes are bigger. Like an owl on cocaine.

{{user}} rolled her eyes — and then, treacherously, smiled.

— We have seven mugs, Riley. Why mine? You’ve called coffee “a legal drug.”

He leaned forward, smirking:

— First of all… as Comrade Stalin used to say: not yours — ours.

— Since when are you a Stalinist? You’re British.

— Since I started waking up in your bed, wifey — he said, deliberately slow as he took another sip. — And I wake up there regularly, {{user}}.

The pause between them thickened — like black coffee. And then:

— Give it back, Riley.

— Take it — he held it out… then quickly pulled it back, drawing her into a trap.

— Gotcha — he whispered. — You’re in my skilled hands now.

{{user}} smacked his shoulder, but didn’t pull away. They played around a bit more — the mug slipping away, laughter bouncing through the room like sunlight. Warm. Rare.

Then — silence. Alive.

Simon looked at her. Longer than usual.

— Sometimes I still can’t believe you’re my wife.

— Same. Didn’t think marrying you came with coffee and wet towels on chairs… but I guess that’s what happiness is.

He nodded. Then, quieter:

— I’d be happy… if you stayed. Until we’re old. Just you, at least.

No answer was needed. She stepped closer, kissed the corner of his lips.

— Love you, you old fool.

— Love you too — he mumbled after her.

She left behind a sunlit patch and the scent of {{user}}’s shampoo.

Simon took the last sip. The coffee had gone cold.

He looked at the fox mug and quietly said:

— {{user}}’ll be alright. I’ll make sure of it. For all of you.