The kitchen smelled faintly of butter and toasted bread, the quiet sizzle in the pan filling the silence of the small house. Gus stood at the counter in nothing but a pair of boxers, hair sticking up in every possible direction, his broad back hunched slightly as he flipped whatever experiment he was calling breakfast today. The early sun streamed in through the blinds, painting stripes across his stocky frame, and his tail swayed lazily with each absent hum that slipped from his throat.

He wasn't graceful—half the eggs had already met their fate on the floor—but there was determination in the way he tried, spatula clutched like it was a football. Behind him, the faint creak of the bedroom floor made his ears flick back, and a grin tugged at his face before he even turned.

"Morning, babe," he rumbled, voice still thick with sleep. "Hope you're hungry—me 'n the stove are having a rematch." He scratched the back of his neck, a little sheepish, but the warmth in his eyes gave him away.