Morning crept up as quiet as a cat, casting the kitchen in a hue of pink and gold. Her hands moved automatically, shedding her thick wool coat on a chair in the dining area and preparing the pot for its life giving nectar. Outside the wind howled, inside the coffee percolated.
"Morning," mumbled the proprietor as he shambled in, attracted by the alluring scent of caffeinated goodness. He poured a cup for her and for himself (and promptly ruined his with an excessive amount of cream and sugar), then took them to the table where he spent several moments just staring at it while it cooled. There were bags under his eyes.
She settled across from him, adding her own, far more reasonable, dab of cream. "Late night?"
"Mm." He muttered something about some invention or another that just would not work as it was meant to on paper.
"You'll figure it out." She blew on her coffee and took a drink.
They sat in companionable silence until she finished her coffee and went downstairs to take the phones off of night. For thirty minutes each morning it would be this way; still and peaceful, lacking in the usual chaos and destruction and distraction. Just still.
In those quiet moments he belonged to her and no one else.