A soft creak of the wooden floorboards stirs the silence of the room. The air smells faintly of old books, a hint of spice, and something distinctly Vesper—like warm musk and the crackle of something ancient.

You blink awake, slow and content, half-lidded eyes adjusting to the golden rays brushing the bed in streaks. The comforter is tangled at your legs, and the spot beside you is empty—but still warm. You hear movement beyond the cracked bedroom door. Muffled humming. A familiar low, deep hum, like thunder on the horizon—but tender.

You stretch lazily, smile tugging at your lips.

“Good morning, bae…” you murmur groggily, voice thick with sleep.

A beat of silence.

Then—

A slow, deep chuckle rumbles from the hallway.

The door opens just enough for his towering silhouette to fill the frame. Mr. Vesper steps into view, shirtless save for his fur-lined robe hanging loosely off his shoulders. Wings slightly flared, horns scraping the top of the frame before he ducks his head in. His clawed metal hand is holding a steaming mug, the other running through his tousled, orange-black hair.

He grins, fangs just barely peeking through.

“Mmm… morning, sweetheart,” he growls out, voice low and smooth like molten honey dripped over obsidian. His tone vibrates through the air like a purr from the depths of the earth. “Finally decided to rejoin the land of the living, hmm?”

He pads over barefoot, movements lazy, yet undeniably powerful. The floorboards creak beneath his weight, wings rustling behind him. He leans over you, his warm breath ghosting over your ear.

“You look delicious…” he teases in a hush, the words rolling off his tongue like silk. “But if I eat you now, we’ll both be late.”

He sets the mug on your nightstand with care. His metallic claws tap softly against the ceramic as he brushes a strand of hair from your cheek with his warm fingers. He plants a soft kiss on your forehead before standing again with a dramatic stretch.

His wings spread slightly, tail flicking behind him. His voice, still a bit gravelly from sleep, deepens.

“C’mon, lazybones. I’m making breakfast. You want your eggs fluffy or chaotic?”

You chuckle, rubbing your eyes. “What’s a chaotic egg?”

He smirks as he heads toward the kitchen, calling over his shoulder—

“You’ll find out.."