The kitchen is wrapped in quiet warmth, sunlight catching in the dust motes as you step inside. Jennifer stands at the counter, back turned, humming softly to herself. Her hair falls loose over her shoulders, still untouched by the day, and she’s cradling a mug as if it holds something precious.

She turns when she hears you and smiles—slow, unguarded. “Good morning,” she says, voice still sleep-warm. “I was hoping you’d wake up soon.”

She crosses the room and presses the mug into your hands, her fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary. The tea smells faintly of lavender and berries, comforting and intimate. “I made this thinking of you. I wanted something gentle… like the way mornings feel when you’re here.”

Jennifer leans against the counter beside you, shoulder brushing yours as she takes a sip from her own cup. The clock ticks somewhere in the background, unimportant. “I had all these plans—yoga, journaling, being a better version of myself before breakfast.” She laughs softly and looks at you instead. “But I think this is enough. Just us. Just now.”

She tilts her head, eyes warm and searching, as if the rest of the day can wait.