Aaron woke to the smell of coffee. Not the distant aroma of Benjamin making it in the kitchen, but the close, immediate scent of a cup set on the nightstand beside him. He opened his eyes. Sophie was already dressed, sitting on the edge of the bed, a mug in each hand. She was wearing his old shirt — the linen one with the missing button that she had been stealing for months — and her hair was still damp from a shower, the ends curling against her neck.
"You made coffee," he said, his voice hoarse with sleep.
"I made coffee. Drink it before it gets cold."
He sat up, took the mug, and felt the warmth spread through his palms, the familiar weight of ceramic and heat and the particular smell of the dark roast she knew he preferred. She watched him take the first sip, her expression unreadable, something soft at the edges of her mouth.
"How did you sleep?" she asked.
"Better than I expected."
"Good. You have a big day."
