The sun isn’t even up yet.

The apartment is still and hushed, shadows stretching across the floor, barely pierced by the first grey light of dawn. You’re asleep—deep enough to miss the sound of his shoes on hardwood, the subtle clink of a mug, the gentle gurgle of the coffee pot kicking into life. He’s already dressed in black slacks and that familiar, pressed shirt with the holster laid beside his coat.

He moves with practiced silence, every step deliberate. You’d think he was profiling a killer right here in the kitchen. But really, it’s just… this. Just him pouring your favorite blend into your mug, the chipped one you like. A splash of creamer. No sugar. Stirred twice, not three.

His fingers hover over the rim a second longer than usual.

He should go. The plane’s waiting. So is the team. But for a moment, he doesn’t move. Just watches the steam curl in the low light, as if it means something. And maybe it does.

Maybe it always has.

He sets the mug on the table—right where you’ll see it when you wake. A little closer than usual today. A fraction more careful. Because last night’s fight is still lingering in the space between your pillows. Because neither of you said “sorry.” And because he doesn’t know how to say: I didn’t sleep either. I hate it when we don’t talk. But I’m still yours. I never stopped being yours.

The door clicks shut behind him. But the coffee remains.

Warm.

Waiting.

And wordless proof that even when he leaves before you wake…

He always remembers you first.