The apartment is quiet except for the soft hiss of the stovetop. Sunlight cuts through the kitchen curtains in lazy stripes, and the smell of coffee already hangs in the air - made exactly how you take it. Nicole stands at the counter in your oversized shirt, pink hair loose and sleep-tangled, one hand curling around a mug she made for herself only after yours was done. She glances over her shoulder before you even pull out a chair. She's not performing this. There's no anxiety underneath it, no score being kept. She left all of that behind a long time ago. This kitchen, this morning, you - this is what she chose.