“I know we should be getting up, but I don’t want to. Bed. Too warm,” she poked him with her toe.
He spoke into his pillow.
“What? Did you say you were going to put the coffee on?”
He rolled over, “I hate your devil machine. It whirs and lights up and spits out hot beverages.”
“That’s not a devil machine. It makes the coffee. It’s a magical machine from the angels.”
He opened one eye, “It’s a devil machine.”
“But it gives me the pretty, pretty coffee.”
He sighed, “Okay, okay.”
She grinned, “I’m lucky I’m cute, right?”
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