Chapter Text
Outside the morning rose cold and cloudy. The kind of the day that makes you pull your sleeves or reach for the coziest cardigan.
Inside the Warren house stood in quiet peace, wrapped in the kind of stillness that only came with early hours. Before the phone rang, before cases called, before the chaos.
In the kitchen, the coffee was brewing, that rich, familiar scent curling into the air like a soft blanket. Ed stood by the counter, hands tucked into the pockets of his worn pajama pants, watching the pot fill. The sound of the drip, the occasional soft pop of the machine, the hiss of steam, like his own peaceful ritual.
He didn’t need to look at the clock. He knew Lorraine would be up soon.
The table was already set, two mismatched mugs, two slices of toast waiting in the toaster, a small vase with one daisy he’d picked from the garden before the weather turned. It had been late-blooming, stubborn, much like Lorraine when she got an idea in her head.
He smiled to himself and poured the coffee into her favorite mug, the one with the chipped rim and the fading pattern of stars. She claimed it was nothing special, but he knew better. She always reached for it, even if cleaner, newer mugs sat right beside it.
As if summoned by his thoughts, soft footsteps padded down the hallway.
She appeared, still wrapped in her robe, pajama pants trailing slightly past her ankles. Her hair was loosely tied back, a few strands escaping to frame her face. She had that look, the look of not being entirely awake and not sleepy, she’s in between worlds. His heart ached at her sight. After all the years together he still was baffled by her presence.
“You’re up early” she mumbled, voice husky with sleep.
“Didn’t want you coming down to cold coffee” Ed said, already moving to pull her chair out.
“Chivalry before sunrise. Should I be suspicious?”
“You should be grateful,” he teased, sliding the warm mug into her hands. “Cream and two sugars. Stirred, not shaken.”
“Very funny.”
But she took the mug, fingers curling around it, and let out a sigh, the kind that sounded like home.
Ed watched her settle in, watched her take that first sip with closed eyes and a quiet hum of approval. He didn’t say anything. Just moved around her, pressing the toaster down, fetching the jam she liked from the fridge, placing it all within reach before she had the chance to ask.
Lorraine didn’t speak for a while, not because there was nothing to say, but because she didn’t have to. This was their rhythm. A dance choreographed by years of mornings like this.
When the toast popped, he was already moving. A little butter, just enough jam, cut diagonally, the way she liked it, even if she’d never actually admitted it out loud. He placed the plate in front of her like he was offering a gift. She gave him a look.
“You fuss more than my mother ever did.”
“She didn’t marry you.”
That earned him a quiet laugh, the kind he lived for.
He finally sat down, mug in hand, not even bothering with toast for himself. Watching her enjoy the small breakfast felt more satisfying than eating his own. She noticed, of course. Lorraine always noticed.
“You didn’t make one for yourself.”
“I will. Just wanted to see if I still remembered how to make yours.”
“Muscle memory at this point,” she said, tearing a corner of her toast and placing it on a napkin. She pushed it across the table toward him.
He smiled and took the offering without comment.
Outside, the wind picked up. A branch scraped lightly against the window, but the kitchen stayed warm, insulated by the soft hum of the refrigerator, the occasional creak of the floor, the closeness between them.
Lorraine leaned her head against her hand, eyes half-lidded.
“Do you ever get tired of doing all this?”
“What? Making breakfast?”
“Being so... you.” She gestured around vaguely, the toast, the coffee, the warmed cloth, the daisy in the vase.
Ed pretended to think.
“Not yet.”
“You make it look easy.”
“It is. Loving you never felt like a job.”
Lorraine looked away then, but not before he caught the flicker of something in her eyes. A soft ache. A gratitude too big to say aloud.
He didn’t press it. He just reached across the table and gently tapped the edge of her mug.
“Refill?”
She hesitated, then nodded.
“Half a cup. No sugar this time.”
“You’ll hate it.”
“I want to be brave.”
He chuckled, taking her mug.
“Bravery is overrated. But I’ll support your cause.”
When he returned, she was staring out the window, hands wrapped around the daisy vase. He set the mug down and stood behind her, resting a hand on her shoulder.
She leaned into him slightly.
“I like mornings like this,” she said.
“Me too.”
“No ghosts. No cold spots. Just toast and warm hands.”
“You forgot the coffee,” Ed said.
She smiled. “And the coffee.”