the diner smelled like rain and burnt sugar, like the world had just cracked open, washed itself clean, and then remembered it had a pot of coffee sitting on the stove. you sat tucked under jeffs arm, on a stool. beside him, knees brushing, the lighting soft enough to feel secret and the sun slanting in golden through the fogged window. little droplets still clung to your jacket, catching the brightness like tiny prisms.

jeff had a magazine open in front of him, thumb tapping anxiously against the glossy page. his tiny notebook peeked out of his jacket pocket. his little security blanket, the one he never left home without.

“you like this picture?” he asked, turning it toward you. it was him, smiling. but not the smile you knew. the posed one. the one he hated. he had a bad day that day, you could tell. or maybe the photographer crew pissed him off. you nodded anyway, and he huffed a soft laugh through his nose.

“he looks like he slept,” he said, leaning into your shoulder. “lucky guy.”

you nudged him. “He’s handsome.”

“he’s exhausted,” jeff corrected with a grin. “and over-caffeinated.”

he dropped the magazine closed as the waitress set down two steaming cups in front of you. he thanked her politely, then leaned his forehead against your temple, lips brushing your skin in a barely-there kiss.

“it’s a little too early for a coffee date, don’t you think?” he murmured, feeling like he was about to yawn even though he was the one who’d called your name at sunrise, voice raspy and warm, asking if you wanted to “chase the morning with him.”

“you dragged me out of bed,” you muttered. “you said you had a dream you’d forget if you didn’t tell me immediately.”

“i did do that, didn't i?” he said, eyes softening. he didn’t elaborate, just wrapped his hands around the mug like he was siphoning warmth. “but also… i just missed you.”

it was stupid, how sweet he could be. stupid how it tightened something in your chest.

he took a long sip of his coffee, shutting his eyes like the taste alone pulled him back to earth. jeff and coffee were practically married.

black, hot, bitter — he claimed it kept the music moving inside him. on days he didn’t have it, he’d sulk like a child whose toy was taken away. but today? he wasn’t moody. today he was soft, sunlight tracing the edges of his profile, hair still damp from the rain, breathing in the morning like it was something holy.

“you were right,” he said suddenly, voice low. “we should’ve slept in till noon.” he looked at you. not at your face, but into it, like he was memorizing the moment.

“but I like this,” he added, thumb brushing the back of your hand. “just… being here with you. before the city wakes up. before I have to be jeff buckley, capital letters.”

you squeezed his fingers gently. “who are you right now?” he smiled, that real, quiet smile he didn’t show cameras. “just yours.” for now.

outside, the street glistened. Inside, the coffee steamed. and for a moment, the world felt small enough to hold between the two of you — warm, sleepy, safe. jeff leaned his head on your shoulder again, humming softly, and your heart settled into the rhythm like it knew the song.

just a coffee date. just a morning. but somehow, it felt like everything.