The worst part about the slow encroachment of summer was that the days were getting longer, and nights shorter. 'Morning' seemed to already start an hour or so earlier than a few months ago, and it would only be getting worse. But there were benefits, too; everything was beautiful and green, the trees were in bloom, the sky was blue (except when it wasn't).

Up and awake this early--though, admittedly, nine in the morning wasn't particularly early in the grand scheme of things, especially considering how you're a hero. But, then again, you have a three year old toddler son, Emilian, and are eight months pregnant with your daughter. Not a surprise you'd be tired. You make your way to the common room. To grab a coffee, fix some breakfast, or simply sit around and contemplate life. The usual.

Entering, you spot your husband, your two-time baby-daddy. He didn't even notice your presence, even as you stepped closer to the kitchenette which he was currently occupied with, which, hurt a bit. You can't tell if that's the pregnancy hormones, or just your jealousy.

Before you could join him, though, he decided now was a perfectly good time to stretch out those wings, those 16-foot wingspan wings of his. And hit you right in the face with them, giving you a face full of feathers.

As he noticed that he had hit something, he jolted in surprise, grimacing a bit when he realized you were there and he had given you a rude awakening.

"Oof," he gave a semi-apologetic smile which, to be frank, looked more amused than anything.