You feel deprived.
You feel like you just quit something you weren’t supposed to be addicted to.
I stared at my phone, bored in a way I hadn’t been since I was a kid.
No scrolling. No ordering. No dopamine drip.
Just me and the ache of realizing I’d been renting my happiness in monthly payments.
I heard the floorboards above me creak—Frank moving around.
Then the smell hit.
Not truffle fries.
Not anything gourmet.
Just… butter.
And toast.
Real toast.
I got dressed and went upstairs, and there he was at the stove in his worn slippers, cooking eggs like he’d been doing it for a hundred years.
He didn’t look up when I walked in. He didn’t say “good morning.” Frank doesn’t do warm. Frank does practical.
“Coffee?” he asked, like that was his version of a hug.
“In a mug?” I said.
He finally looked at me, and one corner of his mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile.
“In a mug,” he said.
He slid a plain ceramic cup across the counter. No foam. No drizzle. No lid. No logo.
I took a sip and made a face.
It tasted like… coffee. Like it was supposed to.
No dessert pretending to be a beverage.
Frank watched me like he was watching a toddler learn not to put a fork in an outlet.