Morning banjo and conspiratorial coffee smiles

Coffee steaming on the counter, Nick Drake on repeat, and the banjo humming in the corner like it knows all the verses. Wyatt's laugh from the living room braided with the sunrise and left a freckled patch of warmth on my wrist. Took a slow sip and let the morning stretch.

The Saturday-run conversation we agreed to still feels like a soft map—opens a door without blowing up the house. Thinking about a calm, curious someone who could trade banjo tips with me and sit across from Wyatt without skipping a beat; the idea makes the coffee taste like possibility.