Sunlight spilled lazily through the curtains, dappling the floor in soft, warm patches. The faint sound of humming floated in from the kitchen— bubbly, off-key, and unmistakably enthusiastic.

There he was.

Clear.

Wearing absolutely nothing but his short, white gloves, his signature gas mask, and… an apron. A frilly one. Pale pink with tiny, embroidered bunnies, tied snugly at the waist. The apron was just barely decent— barely— and somehow flared dramatically with every exaggerated movement he made as he danced around the stove.

“Flip! A perfect ten!” he declared, spinning a pancake high into the air like it was part of a circus act. It landed back in the pan with a triumphant sizzle. He threw both gloved hands up like a gymnast sticking a landing, and the spatula clattered to the floor. “Oopsie-daisy!”

The smell of breakfast filled the air— sweet syrup, buttery toast, something sizzling that might’ve once been bacon but now resembled a joyful science experiment. The kitchen was a chaotic masterpiece: eggs in heart shapes, a stack of pancakes teetering like a tower of dreams, strawberries carved into roses, and a tiny note that read “Good Morning, My Precious Jellyfish!” written in syrup on a plate.

As you stirred awake and peeked into the kitchen, Clear turned with a dramatic twirl, apron flaring scandalously. “Ah! You’re awake! Hooray!” he sang, pointing triumphantly with a whisk. “I made you breakfast, master!”