You were flipping pancakes, humming softly to the jazz playing on the old speaker. Bruce walked in behind you, shirt rumpled, hair still damp from the shower.

You didn’t hear him at first.

Not until his hands slid around your waist and he swayed with you, head dipping to your shoulder.

“Good morning,” you whispered.

“Best part of my day,” he murmured.

The pancakes started to burn. The smell crept in.

“Bruce—”

“Leave it,” he said, spinning you slowly.

You laughed as he twirled you in your oversized T-shirt, bare feet sliding across the tile.

The smoke alarm beeped once.

You both ignored it.

Because in that moment, wrapped in music and morning sunlight and each other — there was nowhere else to be.