It was the same every morning. She’d get up at –exactly– two o’clock and go downstairs, switch on the kettle and set out two mugs with teabags in them.
She’d pour the boiling water after exactly one minute and thirty seconds, uncap the green lid from the milk, place it beside the second mug, ever the one with “I don’t care” painted on it– she had a sneaky suspicion that he’d made that himself–, pour the milk into his cup, stir it three times –for luck, he said–, drop in two sparkling, white sugar cubes into the steaming brown drink, and then apply the same treatment to her own.
Then, in precisely one minute and seven seconds, she’d hear the quiet sound of knocking on the kitchen window, see his face peeking cautiously around the frame just to check that she was really there and that it wasn’t a dream, and then he’d slowly come into the room –she made sure to unlock the door as she was waiting for the kettle–, take his favourite mug and lean against the corner of the wall directly under the clock –always had to be perfectly on time, that boy–.
They would sip their drinks in silence, and then, exactly three minutes and twenty–six seconds later, he would put the mug down, thank her with a shaky nod of his head –not trusting his voice to speak–, and slip out of the back door and into the night.
She would wait for –exactly– twenty seconds and then head up to bed.

She didn’t know when she’d made this an integral part of her day, but she now would always wake up at exactly two o’clock –just so she could see his face–, and always perform this routine.
If she didn’t, she would not function properly –she was hooked–.
Curse him –him, beautiful him, always in her thoughts– and his need for preciseness.
He’d got her addicted to the drink –and him–, and, on the days that he was away, she’d have to drink from his mug.
No other would do.
And she knew that, despite his cold mask and unwillingness to show emotion, despite what his mug said, he really did care –she cares too. She loves him–.