Insight of a Kenyan Girl

I lingered there, caught between the warmth of his chest and the pull of the day. The quiet stretched, not awkward, but fragile, like a glass sphere balanced between us.

Eventually, I whispered, “Coffee?”

Patty’s mouth curved, just slightly. “You’re offering, or asking?”

“Both.”

He let me slip away first, his eyes following as I padded to the kitchen, blanket still draped around me. The kettle hissed, the scent of coffee filled the air, and for a moment it was almost ordinary like we were just two people waking up after an uneventful night.

When I brought him a mug, he took it without thanks, only a steady glance that said more than words. His fingers brushed mine, deliberate this time.

“You make a habit of rescuing strays?” he asked, sipping the coffee.

I arched a brow. “Is that what you think you are?”

His smirk was faint, but his eyes softened in a way I wasn’t used to seeing. “Depends who you ask.”

I sat across from him, clutching my own mug. The light painted the room gold, casting shadows sharp and soft all at once.

For the first time, I didn’t see him as a man on guard, or a man with consequence written into his bones. I saw him as someone who stayed. Someone who hadn’t vanished when the night turned heavy.

And that alone felt dangerous in a different way because it made me want to believe in him.

Patty drank in silence, but it wasn’t the same silence as last night. This one was slower, stretched thin by sunlight and the faint clink of mugs against wood.

“You know,” I said, breaking it gently, “you don’t exactly look like the type who enjoys slow mornings.”

His gaze flicked up, steady as ever. “I don’t get many.”

“Soldier habit?”

His mouth twitched, but he didn’t confirm or deny. “Survivor habit.”

I didn’t push. Not yet. Instead, I slid a plate across the table two pieces of toast, buttered unevenly. “Then today you do.”

He stared at the plate, then at me, as if I’d offered something more than bread. His mouth tilted, not quite a smile, but close enough to steal my breath.

“Toast,” he said.

“Yes. Revolutionary, I know.”

He took a bite, chewing slowly, deliberately, like the act itself was a strange kind of truce.

I rested my chin in my hand, watching him. “You look different in the morning.”

“Different how?”

“Less… untouchable.”

For once, he didn’t deflect. He leaned back in his chair, the mug cradled loosely in his hands. “Maybe that’s just you. Seeing what you want to see.”

I shook my head. “No. I think you let me see it.”

The room went quiet again, but it wasn’t fragile this time. It was full like the air between us had finally found a rhythm.

When he finished eating, he pushed the plate away and stood. My first thought was that he was leaving, that the morning would end with a door closing. But instead, he circled the table and stopped behind my chair.

His hand brushed my shoulder, light but sure. “You should eat too,” he murmured.

It wasn’t a command. It wasn’t even concern. It was… care. Care wrapped in the only language he knew how to speak.

I looked up at him, my smile softer now. “You don’t switch it off, do you?”

Patty tilted his head. “What?”

“Protecting. Guarding. Always watching.”

He considered that, then leaned closer, his breath brushing my hair. “Not with you.”

And in that moment, in the golden hush of morning, it didn’t matter who he was outside these walls.
It only mattered that he was here. With me.
The coffee cooled in our mugs, but we didn’t notice. I pushed the plate of toast toward him, and he took another bite, chewing deliberately, as if savoring more than just the food.

“Music?” I asked, gesturing toward the small speaker on the counter.

Patty raised an eyebrow. “You trust me with your music taste now?”

“I think I can risk it,” I said, grinning.

I pressed play. Soft jazz filled the room, light and uneven like sunlight on a quiet street. Patty hummed along faintly, not mocking, not performing just presence.

I poured myself another cup of coffee and leaned back in my chair. He watched me, silent, but it felt like an observation without judgment, a careful attentiveness that somehow put me at ease.

“You make mornings… better,” I said quietly, more to myself than him.

Patty’s gaze met mine. “Better?”

“Yes. Safe. Comfortable. Normal enough that it almost feels wrong.”

A small smirk tugged at his lips. “Normal is dangerous. I prefer dangerous with boundaries.”

I laughed softly, feeling the tension of the night ease from my shoulders. “Then I guess this is your version of dangerous, huh?”

He reached across the table, brushing my hand with his fingertips. Light, deliberate. A touch that said more than words.

“Maybe,” he said. “But you make me want to try safe for once.”

I felt heat rise in my chest. Not embarrassment something softer, warmer. Connection. A quiet thrill in knowing that for this morning, at least, we could exist without shadows or threats.

When the toast was gone, we lingered at the table. Coffee mugs, empty plates, sunlight on skin and hair. I started picking up crumbs, and he joined without asking, our movements mirroring each other. Small gestures, quiet conversation tiny threads weaving something unspoken but strong.

At some point, he leaned back in his chair, his shoulder brushing mine, and I didn’t pull away.

“You’re full of surprises, Minnie,” he said softly.

“And you’re full of contradictions,” I replied, smiling.

He chuckled low, the sound warm and steady, and the world outside didn’t matter. The past didn’t matter. Only this—morning light, quiet laughter, shared coffee, and the gentle weight of someone choosing to stay.

And in that golden, forgiving morning, I realized that sometimes, the safest place isn’t behind walls or doors it’s beside someone who refuses to leave.