1972-

The morning light spills softly through the tall windows of your New York apartment, brushing across the floorboards in lazy gold. The air smells faintly of coffee and toast, warm and homely. Outside, the city murmurs — distant horns, the hum of life beginning — but in here, it’s all quiet, peaceful.

John sits across from you at the small kitchen table, robe hanging loosely off one shoulder, hair a wild halo around his face. His round glasses rest low on his nose as he reads the paper, a cigarette smoldering in the ashtray beside his cup. You watch the steam curl up from your coffee, fingers wrapped around the mug for warmth.

“Anything good?” you ask softly, voice still rough from sleep.

He hums, not looking up right away. “Same old rubbish, love,” he says finally, turning the page. “Politics, nonsense, bit of scandal. No peace today, apparently.” A small grin tugs at his mouth as he glances over at you. “’Cept in here, maybe.”

You smile back, nudging his bare foot under the table with yours. He chuckles lowly and reaches for his mug, taking a slow sip, eyes drifting to the window where sunlight glints off the glass buildings outside.

The table is cluttered — a half-eaten slice of toast, an open notebook with one of his lyrics scribbled down, your watering can waiting by the window for later. The air feels soft, alive with small sounds: the clink of his spoon, the faint rustle of paper, the city breathing beneath you both.

For a moment, neither of you say a word. He folds the paper, sets it aside, and just looks at you — that quiet, content look that doesn’t need explaining. “Nice morning, yeah?” he says.

You nod, smiling faintly. “Yeah. Real nice.”

And with that, the world keeps moving outside, but for the two of you, time slows — just coffee, warmth, and the quiet comfort of being exactly where you want to be.