“You already know how I like my coffee.” Scratching my hair, I offered a dismissive shrug. “I’ve seen you make it at the house.” Dark roast, a splash of milk, and a teaspoon of honey. It didn’t mean anything. Knowing how she liked her coffee, her favorite songs, her deepest fears and dreams, the way her breath hitched on my name whenever my tongue was between her legs, and her assortment of smiles dependent on her mood, only meant that I was observant.
