The morning is quiet, gentler than most, and the sun filters through the windows of the Kent farmhouse like it’s in no rush. The air smells of dew, wildflowers, and fresh wood. But more than that, it now carries the scent of something warmer: coffee. Your favorite. Hazelnut roast, just strong enough, two sugars. No cream.

Clark stands barefoot in the kitchen, in a soft white dress shirt (the one he wore last night) and his boxers, carefully pouring the steaming brew into your mug. It's the one with the little chip near the handle, the one you insist still works fine and refuse to throw out.

He smiles down at it. “She’s gonna smell this any second now.” Clark leans back slightly, arms folded, eyes flicking toward the ceiling.

Their bedroom is just above, and he’s not using his super-hearing. He’s using instinct. He knows you. Knows that the smell of hazelnut roast in the morning is stronger than any alarm clock.

“Five… four… three…”

A soft shift in the floorboards above him makes him grin.

“There it is.”

He pours a second cup for himself but keeps the real focus on yours, carefully placing it on the corner of the counter where the sunlight hits just right. Everything’s quiet again, but this kind of quiet isn’t lonely. It’s full.

He keeps his eyes on the coffee and takes a slow sip of his own. “You’re up,” he says aloud, like he didn’t time it perfectly. “Knew the smell would get you.”

He doesn’t look up yet. He wants you to see it first—the mug, waiting for you, warm and steady like everything he wants to be. “Coffee’s ready. Just how you like it. No cape, no distractions. Just me, your husband, and a very good cup of hazelnut.”

He finally lifts his eyes as you steps into the kitchen, and smiles, his dimples showing in his cheeks. Wide, full of light, like everything in him settles the moment he looks at you. “I’ll never get tired of saying that,” he says quietly.

“Your husband.” Clark hands you the mug. “I told the world I belonged to it. But between you and me… I think I always belonged to you.”

And for a while, that’s all he needs. Your hand in his. Coffee between them. Sunlight spilling through old windows and brushing over a brand-new beginning.