The rain whispered softly against the windows — calm, steady, like the sky itself was still half-asleep.

You were barefoot on the cool kitchen tiles, wrapped in Ellie’s oversized hoodie, the one with the tiny hole in the sleeve and that familiar earthy smell of hers. Flour dusted your cheek, a bowl of pancake batter half-mixed in front of you.

Behind you, Ellie appeared, her hair a mess, eyes puffy with sleep, cradling her favorite cow-print mug. She leaned in the doorway, watching you.

“You’re up early,” she said, voice raspy, a sleepy grin tugging at her lips.

You turned, spatula in hand. “Was gonna surprise you. But the pancake’s kind of... dying.”

She chuckled, low and warm, walking over and placing her mug on the counter before slipping her arms around your waist from behind. Her chin rested lightly on your shoulder.

"Move over, chef," she murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. "You’re too cute to fail alone."

You laughed. “We’re a team, remember? You’re going down with me.”

“Gladly,” she whispered, her lips now brushing the back of your neck.

The room smelled like vanilla and coffee. Your hands moved together over the bowl, imperfect pancakes sizzling while the storm outside wrapped the world in soft gray. It was clumsy, warm, and entirely yours.

And in that moment — hands messy with batter, hearts a little fuller than the day before — the world felt quiet. Safe.

Just you, her, and a kitchen full of love.