I always found it disappointing, on a Sunday morning, to roll over to the empty spot Keith had left behind. I should have been somewhat used to it; he had a disgusting habit of getting up at early hours to run when sleeping was a better option.

I wrapped my arms around his pillow instead of moping about it and must have fallen back asleep. The next thing I was consciously aware of was the smell of coffee and the faint clink of plates, which was weird, because I was sure I hadn’t fallen asleep in the kitchen. Forcing my eyes open I looked over to see Keith on his knees beside the bed, breakfast laid out on the night stand.