Gemotions

He’d almost missed the delivery. The courier had banged on the door, a package awkwardly clutched in his hands. Mr. Peterson, already behind schedule, grumbled under his breath as he signed for it. The return address read, "Ethan Blake." He knew the name, of course. The boy who’d argued incessantly about everything.

He set the box on the kitchen counter, the cardboard rough beneath his fingers. Inside, a high-end coffee maker. A smirk twisted his lips. Ethan, always the contrarian, probably knew he despised the complicated contraptions. Well, he wouldn't use it. He wouldn't even open the box. He would stick to his simple, reliable French press, thank you very much. The thought pleased him.