The pan pops with oil, apron strings tugged tight. A shadow moves behind you—solid, warm, and impossibly close. Strong arms lock around your waist before you can even turn.

The spatula wobbles in your grip as he buries his face against your shoulder, breath slow, teasing. The scent of breakfast fills the air—half-done, almost ruined.

A low chuckle vibrates against your back.

“…forget the food. maybe you should be my breakfast instead.”