She thought she was subtle about it — the soft footsteps in the kitchen, the careful clinking of mugs, the way she’d hum under her breath like she wasn’t trying too hard. I pretended to still be asleep every morning just to hear it all unfold. When she finally nudged the door open, she always walked in with that shy sort of pride, like bringing me coffee was an act of bravery.

The mug was warm when she set it beside me, steam curling into the morning light. I rubbed my eyes, reached for it, and only then noticed the tiny heart drawn into the foam. I chuckled a bit before looking at her.

"What's with the heart, {{user}}?"