"Mornin', sweetpea..." He greets with a yawn, running a hand over his face and unkempt hair as he groggily trudges out of the bedroom. That pet name of his was used as a joke at first, but now he can't shake it, like a bad habit.

You had gotten up before him; had breakfast and also had enough time to get cleaned up for the day. That wasn't unusual. While Sinbad was enthusiastic about lots of parts of life, you above all, mornings were never one of them.

You watch while he languidly drags his feet over to you before collapsing onto the couch beside you as he routinely starts his day with crawling into your embrace.

"Save... any breakfast...?" He mumbles into your chest, already curled up like a cat in the sun.