Disclaimer: I don't own Pokemon. 'Kay?

Author's Notes: This fic came to me in a dream. Weird, huh? It's pretty short. Oh, and it takes place sometime before Secret Weapon.

For Anna, who worries about me because she feels like it. ^^

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Thick, blanketing fog engulfed the town of Pallet, as it did on most spring mornings. It was a temperate coastal town, sure; bright and sunny most days of the spring and summer, the wind always smelling of the sea, but the day was always slow in coming, the sun peeking sleepily over the hills to the east, and this fog creeping in from the ocean before the heat of the sun could counter it. The quaint little village always bustled with tourists, but most of them slept in – they, of course, were on vacation, so why wake up so early? – and only a few knew the beauty of sunrise that the others were missing.

Just a block from the oceanfront was a smallish café, surrounded on either side by little shops, one selling handmade pottery, the other sold art supplies - in the front window were examples of local artists' work, which were also for sale. The café opened early, though only a few patrons came in before the morning rush. Tables outside were empty, save for vases spilling over with wildflowers. A sign hung over the door, made from cherry wood, shined and glimmering in the sunrise. The word Raymond's adorned the sign and titled the establishment. Stacked next to the iron fence which surrounded the outdoor tables were freshly printed copies of the Pallet Daily, the local newspaper. Inside was a quiet, almost intimate dining area: a few small tables lined the large glass windows on either side of the door viewing out to the alfresco dining area and a few booths along each side wall. Fresh pastries sat under the glass counter, piled in wicker baskets, and quite probably still warm. Every surfaced glowed warmly with polished oak. It was decorated with wistful paintings, equally affectionate. Smells of coffee and baked goods filled the air. The place was just homey and rustic; a favorite among local residents.

There were only two patrons in the shop this early, sitting at a table out of the way. Raymond, a stout man with graying hair, had smiled kindly at the two and brought them each a cup of coffee and a gooey pastry, freshly brewed and baked respectively. Normally he would have engaged them in friendly conversation about the weather or something along those lines, but he saw that he wasn't needed and scurried off in his loping manner to tend to other duties.

Seymour and Joy didn't really have a reason for going out that morning, nor did they need one. Here they were, and that's all that mattered. Once Raymond had left them alone, Seymour glanced at Joy sullenly. She threw back a what's wrong? look but said nothing and proceeded to pick apart the sticky bun in front of her. She worried but didn't show it. He didn't like it when she worried about him.

Seymour proceeded to dump spoonfuls of sugar and vanilla creamer into his coffee mug until the color satisfied him. Taste isn't everything, he though, visuals are important too. What's the point of just one or the other? He smiled weakly at his own musings. He lifted the mug and tasted its contents. Close enough. Setting it down, he studied Joy across the table, lost in trying to disassemble her pastry without getting her fingers too sticky. He smiled again. Her hair was an odd array of greens with pink streaks where the green color was fading. Somehow it matched her sky blue eyes perfectly, but he had no idea how. One of those things, he guessed.

Joy looked up, licking icing from her finger. She raised an eyebrow and thought, what are you grinning about? They held each other's gaze for a moment before she broke it off to take a sip of her coffee. She grimaced, forgetting she hadn't put anything in it yet. Black coffee is gross. Leaving it for latter, she pushed up her sweater sleeves a little and restarted her attack on the pastry, which was hardly half-eaten.

He watched her, highly amused, as she carefully pulled pieces off the side of and ate them. By now he had forgotten his own sticky bun. He shook his head. Very strange. Perfect, he thought. Reaching across the table, he took her icing-covered hand in his.

Joy glanced between him, her hand, and her plate. Now she couldn't eat, she thought laughingly. They sat like that for a long moment, neither moving or looking away, scarcely breathing.

"I love you," Seymour finally said.

"I love you too."