The soft light of early morning filters through the blinds, casting long shadows across the small kitchen. Joe moves quietly, almost ritualistically, toward the coffee maker. His fingers work with practiced ease—measuring grounds, tamping them down firmly, filling the water reservoir. Black coffee, no sugar. It’s always black.

He stands by the counter, waiting as the machine gurgles and brews, eyes fixed on the slow drip. The familiar aroma fills the room, grounding him. Joe inhales deeply, savoring the scent, the calm before the day’s inevitable chaos.

“Morning,” he says, his voice low but steady.

From the living room, a soft reply: “Morning, Joe.”

He turns, spotting the familiar silhouette framed by the doorway—someone he cares for, wrapped in a loose sweater, hair tousled from sleep. There’s a quiet comfort in the shared silence between them, a fragile moment of normalcy.

Joe pours the coffee into two mugs, handing one over with a small smile. “You like it strong?” he asks.

“Yeah. Like you.”

They settle at the small kitchen table, the clink of ceramic the only sound besides the hum of the city waking up outside. Joe watches the steam curl from his mug, thoughts swirling beneath the surface.

She doesn’t know I’ve already planned her day, every step mapped out, he thinks. I’m just a part of the background now — the quiet presence keeping her safe.

But even as the calm settles, there’s an undercurrent of tension, barely perceptible. Joe’s eyes flicker to the window, scanning the street below.

“You know,” he begins, voice casual, “there’s something about mornings that feels honest. Like the world’s got a fresh start.”

She smiles, nodding. “I like that. Like anything can happen.”

Joe’s smile tightens slightly. “Yeah. Anything.”

He sips his coffee slowly, savoring the bitter warmth. Inside, his mind races—plans to protect, to watch, to keep close. But for now, in this quiet kitchen, there’s just the coffee and the soft hum of early morning.