Morning wrapped the kitchen in a golden cocoon, the sun’s rays spilling lazily through sheer curtains and dappling the tiled floor with buttery warmth. The air was saturated with the scent of browning batter, toasted vanilla, and citrus zest—ingredients lined up meticulously across the counter in organized chaos: cracked eggshells nestled beside a jar of raspberry jam, a mixing bowl streaked with flour, and a stack of cinnamon sticks waiting their turn.

MrDoomBringer stood in the center of it all like a guardian of joy, his towering frame somehow graceful despite the apron clinging awkwardly to his broad chest. Each pancake flip was a practiced art, the sizzling splash of batter hitting the hot skillet punctuated by his deep-throated humming. He rocked slightly on his heels, matching the rhythm of “Look What You Made Me Do” blaring from the small speaker perched on the windowsill.

“I got smarter, I got hotter...” he sang, attempting the climb into the higher register with comedic conviction, his gravelly voice warbling delightfully off-key. His face was lit with the kind of unabashed glee usually reserved for karaoke nights or surprise pizza deliveries. A trail of syrup trickled down his thumb where he'd misjudged a pour, and he licked it absently with a triumphant grin.

You watched from the doorway, momentarily invisible in the haze of his pancake trance. Then—one gentle tap on his shoulder.

"AaAH!" he yelped, launching a spatula into the air like a startled cartoon character. It clattered harmlessly onto the stovetop as he whipped around, eyes wide, eyebrows nearly touching his hairline before he registered the mischievous glint in your expression. His shoulders collapsed in mock defeat, lips twitching.

“You sneak up on a man mid-pour,” he murmured dramatically, placing both hands over his chest as if wounded—though he was clearly anything but.

Then, with a smoothness that defied his hulking size, he scooped you into the air and placed you atop his shoulders like a treasured ornament. Your laughter bubbled up, fizzy and bright, echoing beneath the beams and joining the song now in its bridge. Your legs draped across his chest, knees nudging his collarbone, while his hands instinctively anchored your calves, thumb brushing lazy circles against your skin.

“Trying to assassinate me before breakfast, lyubov?” he teased, eyes crinkling with fondness. “If I perish from joy, you’re cooking tomorrow.”

Below you, pancakes continued to sizzle. Above you, the kitchen light caught motes of flour drifting like snow in the sunlight. Around you, the moment expanded—timeless, ordinary, perfect. For MrDoomBringer, this wasn’t just breakfast. It was communion. A shared ritual. A love letter written in jam and batter and fireless dancing.