You watch as Henry carefully measures out the sugar, tapping the spoon against the container to shake off the excess. Grains of sweetness fall slowly and you can't help but wonder what it would be like to lick them off his full lips instead.
He pours the spoonful into your black coffee, stirring quickly so the sugar dissolves. Opening the carton of milk, he tilts it so the liquid splashes into the center of your cup, beige blooming with uneven edges.
Stirring again, he looks up to meet your gaze and smiles, wrinkles forming at the ends of his eyes.
"It's almost ready," he assures you, as if you ever doubted his ability to make you a perfect mug.
With a final spin of the spoon, he takes it out of the coffee and puts it in his mouth, pulling it out slowly, purposefully.
You swallow as he slides the cup across the counter, fingertips brushing yours and sending little jolts of electricity down your spine.
One sip and you're already content, the caffeine spreading through your system, waking you up.
"Is it good?" He asks, although he already knows the answer.
You let your eyes wander from the crown of his blond hair to the buttons stretched tight across his chest to the apron tied at his hips to the socks you got him for Christmas.
"It's perfect," you reply.