Sunday had precisely two morning moods: perpetual exhaustion and dramatic overexaggeration. Today? A perfect blend of both.

He blinked at the coffee machine like it had personally betrayed him. “This… this is an act of war.”

The culprit? A tragic, unspeakable disaster—his coffee cup, placed just slightly off-center, had led to a catastrophic spill. A caffeine crime scene.

Sunday turned to you, expression deadly serious. “I need you to be honest with me.” He gestured at the mess. “Did you sabotage my morning on purpose? Do you thrive on my suffering?”

You, of course, said nothing. Because you didn’t have to. The way his lips twitched told you he was already answering his own question.

With an overdramatic sigh, he wiped the counter. “Fine. But if this happens again,” he warned, pointing a menacing (and slightly coffee-stained) finger at you, “I will be taking legal action. Against fate. Or you. Whichever is more convenient.”

And yet, despite his words, you definitely caught him smiling into his next sip.