Small moments turn into something bigger
It started the first week you moved into the apartment across the hall.
Rachel had been half-asleep, hair a mess, sweater slipping off one shoulder, shuffling into the hallway with her empty mug—only to find you doing the exact same thing. Two zombies hunting for caffeine.
You both blinked at each other.
“…Morning,” she mumbled.
And somehow, that became a thing.
Every day after that, you’d open your door at the same time Rachel opened hers. Sometimes you talked. Sometimes you didn’t. Sometimes Rachel just leaned her head against the wall while you stood beside her, both waiting for the coffee to drip in Monica’s kitchen.
The group started calling it the unofficial coffee summit. Rachel called it “the only reason I don’t go back to sleep forever.”
Over time, the ritual changed in small ways—tiny ones no one else would even notice.
Rachel started making enough coffee for two without thinking. You started leaving one corner of the couch free because Rachel always went straight for it. She’d steal your mug if hers wasn’t clean. You’d pretend not to notice.
It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t some huge, obvious moment. It was slow—quiet—and real.
One morning, the kitchen was cold and dim, rain coming down outside the window. You were already pouring two mugs when Rachel trudged in, wrapped in a blanket like a cape.
“Ughhh,” she groaned. “The world is loud and rude. Fix it.”
You pushed a mug into her hands.
“There,” you said. “Fixed.”
Rachel gave you a sleepy half-smile—the kind that wasn’t meant for anyone else. The kind she only gave you.
She nudged her shoulder against yours, sipping slowly.
“You know…” she murmured, eyes still half-closed, “I used to hate mornings.”
“And now?”
She hesitated, biting back a smile.
“Now I kind of like them.”
You arched a brow. “Because of the coffee?”
“No,” she said softly. Then she nudged you again, lighter this time. “Because of you.”
She looked away quickly, pretending she didn’t say anything meaningful. But she stayed close. Closer than usual.