The smell of coffee hit first. You had stayed up and it was now 6:04 AM. You walked into the kitchen. John was already up. Of course he was. He stood by the stove like he owned the place, with a tank top on, hair still damp from a military-fast shower. He was making eggs. Scrambled. And they smelled really good per usual.

You paused in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes squinting at the overly bright kitchen light. He looked over his shoulder. Then did a double-take.

“Just wake up?” He asked. No good morning.

“I’m still up,” you clarified. His brows furrowed and he looked at you very judgmentally. Not so judgmental but he had the ability to appear so even when not.

You lingered there, hovering near the doorway like a stray orbiting his gravity. He went back to stirring the eggs, spatula clinking against the pan. The silence settled, a little senator. His presence had that weird effect, like walking into a room that’s been cleaned too well.

“You hungry?” He asked it too fast. Like he didn’t plan to. You looked up. He avoided your eyes, focused way too hard on the pan.

“Didn’t know you were generous,” you muttered. He just grumbled something under his breath.

He noticed when you leaned against the counter and watch him. You saw his eyes flick to your hands, to the shadows under your eyes. He looked like he wanted to say something about it—You okay? maybe. But instead he turned the heat off. Because he doesn’t know how to be nice.

“Grab a plate,” he said.

“Are you always this generous at the crack of dawn?” You asked.

“Only for the sleep-deprived and emotionally reckless,” he deadpanned. But there was a hint of amusement on his face.