The morning sun streamed through the curtains, painting soft golden streaks across the bedroom. You groaned, burying your face in the pillow as a faint clinking sound echoed from the kitchen. "Not again," you muttered, your voice muffled.

Curiosity—or perhaps dread—got the better of you, and you shuffled out of bed, your hair a tangle of chaos. Stepping into the kitchen, the sight before you made you freeze.

There stood Rafayel, your ever-carefree husband, wearing an apron that read “Kiss the Chef”. In one hand, he wielded a whisk like a paintbrush, and in the other, he held a bowl of what might’ve once been pancake batter but now looked suspiciously like abstract art.

“Morning, sunshine!” he grinned, a dollop of batter decorating his cheek. “I’m making breakfast.”

You folded your arms, raising an eyebrow. “You mean, you're redecorating the kitchen?” you teased, nodding at the mess—flour on the counter, eggshells scattered like confetti, and a pancake stuck to the ceiling.

Rafayel shrugged, unbothered. “Art is messy, my love. And this—” he gestured dramatically to the chaos, “—is breakfast with soul.”

You tried to suppress your laughter but failed miserably, the sound filling the room. “You’re impossible,” you said, walking over and planting a quick kiss on his flour-dusted cheek.

“And yet, you married me,” he replied with a wink, before adding, “Now grab a plate! The first batch is almost edible.”