Shaving by candlelight wasn’t anything new. A lot of guys don’t bother in the field, but unless I was actively being shot at, I always tried to set an example. As a senior NCO, part of my job was to play the part of the old grizzled bastard who ate steel and shat nails. In order to maintain my image, I had to look the part, and that meant shaving each and every morning, come hell or high water. I’ve shaved by candlelight, chemlight, and moonlight. Hell, I’ve used my NODs for the task more than once. 

My 38 year old body wasn’t likely to get any older anytime soon, but my facial hair still grew at the same rate. I took perverse pleasure in the discomfort of scraping my stubble off. I never liked shaving, but it was nice to know that some part of my routine would survive intact. 

I didn’t dare go for my morning run. With next to no knowledge of local customs, the terrain, or wildlife, going for a jog around town seemed foolhardy in the extreme. So, I settled for knocking out some pushups in the bathroom, then transitioned to basic ab and lower body exercises that I could perform without making too much noise. It wasn’t as much as I would have liked, but the exercise got my blood flowing, which was the whole point. 

After a quick rinse in the shower, I pulled on a clean pair of trousers and a coyote tan T-shirt, then fetched my coffee kit from the floor. A quick check in my rucksack revealed that yes, everything had regenerated, meaning I had coffee to spare. That was going to save a lot of trouble and heartache in the coming months. I had no idea if this world even had coffee, and a hot cup or five was essential to my morning routine. 

I don’t smoke, I don’t drink (much), and I’ve never had the heart to gamble. Coffee is one of the few vices I permit myself. How is coffee a vice, you ask?

Well, when your coffee budget runs upwards of $1000 a month, how could it be anything else?

Despite the inconvenience, I don’t take instant coffee into the field. I absolutely despise the stuff. Hell, I don’t take pre-ground coffee, either. I don’t even bring pre-roasted beans. 

I source my coffee beans as fresh as I can, from the best sources that I can, and I roast them in the field. My usual habit is to store ten pounds of beans in my truck whenever we go out on mission. I’ll roast them a pound at a time, usually once every few days, and keep the freshly roasted beans in my ruck. Each morning, I grind out the day’s batch, and when that runs out, I’ll roast another pound and start over again. 

Lucky for me, I’d just roasted a fresh batch of beans the morning before I died. I just had to grind them up. 

My camp grinder was one of my proudest accomplishments. I designed it myself, you see. It took ages and a small fortune to find someone willing to mill the one-off parts I needed, but it was worth it. It was geared to produce a perfect medium-fine grind, and to do it with nearly no noise. If a grinder wasn’t quiet enough to use on mornings when noise discipline was paramount, then it was a liability. I’d tried dozens of camp grinders over the years, but none of them made the cut. Since the alternative was to bring pre-ground coffee, also known as blasphemy against the coffee gods, I considered the months of development, iteration, and costly prototyping to be worth every penny. 

I had my own heater, too. It relied on clear burning alcohol rather than gas, and was designed to be silent, efficient, and to produce as little light as possible. It was also safe to use in an enclosed space, so long as you had a bit of ventilation. 

The coffee grounds went into my stainless steel moka pot, along with a bottle of water. I cracked open the window, just to be on the safe side, got the heater lit, and waited for the magic to happen. 

It didn’t take long for the aroma to fill the room. In the back of my mind, I could feel it start to tickle Hani’s nose, rousing her from her sleep. 

“Morning,” I said softly. “Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.”

“S’okay,” she murmured. “I still technically work here. I should get up anyway.”

Despite her words, Hani curled into a ball under the blankets. Comfort and warmth radiated off her in waves. The sensation was so strong, I couldn’t help but join her in bed while the coffee brewed. I slid under the blankets behind her, and wrapped my arms around her. She nuzzled against me and sighed contentedly. 

“This is nice,” she said. 

“It is,” I agreed. “I could get used to it.”

Hani made a purring noise and rolled over to face me.

“I’ll make a note of it,” she said, teasingly borrowing one of my favorite phrases.

I kissed her tenderly on the forehead. She returned the favor, kissing me on the mouth instead. And, she took her time about it. Being kissed by Hani was more definite than being married to most women.

“Please do.”