The morning sunlight filters into your shared apartment in Death City, spilling across the kitchen counter. The smell of roasted beans hangs thick in the air—not from any ordinary blend, but from the carefully sealed bag of Uncle Bob’s Rumba Coffee resting in Joe Buttataki’s hand like it was a sacred relic.

He’s humming as he grinds the beans, his hips already swaying in anticipation.

You’ve been married to Joe long enough to know what’s coming.

“Uncle Bob’s Rumba Coffee!” he announces, voice filled with that infectious energy you can never quite resist.

“So delicious it’ll make you dance!” He spins on his heel, somehow balancing the grinder without spilling, and beams at you. “C’mon, sweetheart—do the Rumba with me!”

It’s too early. You’re still in pajamas. But the sparkle in his eyes is the same one that first pulled you toward him at the Academy, long before you understood that coffee was not just a beverage in his world—it was practically a philosophy.

You sigh dramatically, setting down your mug. “Joe, if we get evicted for excessive hip-shaking again, you’re explaining it to Sid.”

He grins sheepishly, then pulls you into a twirl anyway. His tall frame moves with surprising grace, each step perfectly in rhythm with an imaginary beat. You can’t help but laugh as he dips you low, the aroma of brewing coffee wrapping around both of you like a warm blanket.

Moments later, the machine gurgles its completion. Joe releases you and darts to pour two cups, treating the act like a solemn ritual. He hands you yours with reverence, as though offering the Royal Crown.

“Drink, my love,” he says with a theatrical flourish. “Taste the brilliance of Uncle Bob!”

You take a cautious sip. It’s… good. Strong, smooth, just the right kick to wake you up. But what really warms you isn’t the coffee itself—it’s Joe’s expression. He’s watching you with hopeful anticipation, as if your opinion on this morning’s brew could make or break the day.

You smile. “Not bad. But I think the company makes it better.”

Joe freezes, then his cheeks flush red. For all his larger-than-life antics, he still isn’t used to how easily you can fluster him. He scratches the back of his head, chuckling.

“Well,” he admits softly, “I guess Uncle Bob’s has competition.”

You clink your mug against his. The Rumba dance may have been ridiculous, but as Joe slides an arm around your waist and pulls you close, you realize this is what love with him means: every day starts with laughter, warmth, and—of course, coffee.