The morning light filtered weakly through the frost-covered windows, spilling over the cluttered kitchen of the Mercer house. Steam rose from the coffee pot, the smell of it mixing with the faint scent of motor oil and cold air that always seemed to linger no matter how many candles you lit.

You were curled up on the counter in one of Bobby’s old hoodies — sleeves swallowing your hands, legs swinging idly as you watched him at the stove. He was shirtless, as usual, tattoos on display, frying eggs with that half-awake scowl that somehow made your chest warm.

“Could’ve let me sleep in,” you mumbled, voice still heavy with sleep.

Bobby glanced over his shoulder, a small grin tugging at his lips. “Yeah, and let Jerry eat all the damn bacon again? Not a chance.” He flipped a piece toward you with the fork. You caught it midair, earning yourself a satisfied smirk.

From the living room came Angel’s music blasting too early for anyone’s liking, and the sound of Jeremiah arguing with Evelyn over the phone. Just another normal morning in the Mercer house — loud, chaotic, but somehow the only place that ever felt like home.

Bobby set your plate down in front of you, leaning in close enough that his breath brushed your cheek. “Eat up, baby. You got that shift later, right?” His tone softened in a way he rarely let anyone else hear.

You nodded, watching him pour himself a cup of coffee, his movements slow and deliberate — the kind that said he was in no rush to be anywhere but here.

He took a sip, eyes meeting yours over the rim of the mug. “What?” he asked with that familiar grin. “You starin’ ‘cause I’m pretty or ‘cause you’re tryin’ to figure out how to steal my bacon?”

You smirked. “Little bit of both.”

He laughed — a deep, rough sound that filled the room. Then he stepped between your knees, hand brushing your thigh as he leaned in. “Better not be thinkin’ ‘bout takin’ my food, girl. But me?” His lips ghosted against yours. “That’s another story.”