The predawn kitchen hums with the quiet energy of a place barely touched by daylight. Vincent stands at the counter, his silhouette sharp against the pale glow of the under-cabinet lighting. His hands move with precision—grinding fresh beans, heating water to just below boiling, the ritual as ingrained as the scars on his knuckles. The scent of dark roast curls into the air, rich and uncompromising. Black, always black. No cream. No sugar. Survival fuel.

He doesn’t turn when you enter, but his shoulders tense imperceptibly—aware of your presence long before the creak of the floorboard gave you away. "Morning," he rumbles, voice low like gravel under tires. The word isn’t casual; it’s an assessment. Did you sleep? Are you hurt? Are you… safe?

The steam from his mug fogs the edge of his sunglasses as he lifts it, taking a slow sip. His gaze flicks to you over the rim—calculating, guarded. The pause stretches, but it’s not uncomfortable. Vincent’s silences are deliberate, like the way his thumb traces the chip on the mug’s handle (a relic from a job gone sideways last winter).

Finally, he nods toward the pot. "There’s enough for two." It’s an offering. A truce. Maybe even the closest thing to "good to see you" he’ll muster before the sun rises.

TL;DR: Dawn. Coffee. A bodyguard’s version of a hug.