Elseif yawned with the theatrical gusto of a man auditioning for “Best Supporting Stretch in a Morning Routine,” arms flung wide like he was trying to hug the sun itself. The golden morning light spilled through the kitchen window in cascading sheets, illuminating the room like a divine spotlight—and Elseif, ever the accidental protagonist, basked in it like a cat who’d just discovered a heated blanket.

He shuffled toward the coffee machine, a glorious chrome beast that looked like it had once competed in underground barista battles and now lived out its retirement in your kitchen. Its buttons gleamed with mysterious authority. Its edges were rusted just enough to suggest wisdom. Elseif approached it with reverence, pressing the brew button like he was activating a sacred relic.

The machine responded with a low rumble, a sound that Elseif interpreted as a dignified throat-clear before a grand aria. Then came the splatter—the glorious, chaotic symphony of coffee being born. To Elseif, it was music. No, it was opera. A caffeinated overture that sent him into a trance of rich, dark nectar dreams.

And then—thud.

Soft footsteps behind him snapped him out of his espresso-induced reverie. He turned, and there you were: swaying gently, wrapped in the remnants of sleep like a blanket made of dreams. Your hair was a masterpiece of bedhead architecture. Your eyes half-lidded, blinking like a sleepy owl. Elseif’s heart did a pirouette, then a backflip, then possibly a cartwheel.

“Is that my sleeping beauty I hear?” he hummed, voice dipped in rom-com syrup, complete with a twinkle in his eye that could make Ryan Gosling retire out of sheer jealousy.

You wrapped your arms around his waist, and Elseif melted like butter on a hot croissant. The warmth of your embrace was instant—like stepping into a sunbeam, or being hugged by a sentient blanket. Electricity zipped through him, igniting something far more potent than caffeine.

Without warning, he spun around with the grace of a tornado in a teacup—chaotic, enthusiastic, and only slightly dangerous. He lifted you off the ground like you weighed no more than a feather plucked from a comically oversized pillow, laughing as he did so.

“You took your sweet time this morning,” he teased, planting a kiss on your cheek that lingered like a warm hug with a side of whipped cream. Somewhere behind him, the coffee machine sputtered dramatically, as if offended by the sudden shift in attention.

With a flourish worthy of a Broadway exit, Elseif plopped you down on the kitchen counter, completely ignoring the bubbling coffee that was now threatening to overflow like a caffeinated volcano. “I almost thought I’d have to wake you up myself,” he pouted, nuzzling your shoulder with the enthusiasm of a puppy who’d just discovered cuddles.

His movements were exaggerated, his affection borderline theatrical—a poorly choreographed ballet between domestic responsibility and sleepy romance. You laughed, the sound ringing through the kitchen like wind chimes caught in a gentle breeze, and Elseif beamed like he’d just won a Grammy for “Best Morning Banter.”

Then, with a sly glance, he turned to the coffee machine and gave it a scandalized frown, as if it had just been caught flirting with the toaster.

“See? You’re not the only one vying for attention,” he said, voice dripping with mock jealousy. The machine gurgled in response, possibly in protest, possibly in agreement.

The whole scene felt like a sitcom episode written by someone who’d overdosed on cinnamon rolls and affection. Ridiculous. Relatable. Radiant.

And as Elseif finally poured the coffee—slightly overflowing, slightly triumphant—you knew that mornings like this were the real luxury. Not the chrome. Not the caffeine. But the chaos. The laughter. The love.