In the quiet kitchen, dawn barely whispered through the curtains. She filled the kettle, struck a match—old stove, stubborn flame. While water hummed, she chose his favorite mug, chipped rim and all. Tea leaves tumbled like secrets into the pot. Steam rose as she stirred in two sugars, no milk—he liked it strong. Wrapped in robe and silence, she carried it gently, bare feet padding on cold tile. He’d be awake soon. For now, she waited by the window, cup warming her palms, love steeped in every sip yet taken.
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