The day began with a soft glow creeping through the woven wooden blinds, casting stripes of golden light across the kitchen floor. You stood barefoot, the smooth tile cool against your skin, wearing nothing but his oversized t-shirt and your underwear. The scent of coffee hung in the air, mingling with the faint vanilla of your lotion.

Your phone sat propped up against the ceramic sugar jar, playing a mix of your favorite songs. A lively beat filled the room, pulling you into its rhythm. You couldn’t resist. Spoon in hand, you spun on your heel, letting your hips sway in time to the music.

The shirt—his shirt—swung loosely, the hem brushing your thighs as you moved. You laughed at yourself, twirling as though the kitchen tiles were a grand stage. The clatter of a spatula in the pan brought you back to your task.

Pancakes sizzled, the edges crisping to a perfect golden brown. You hummed along to the chorus, flipping the stack with a flourish that would’ve impressed even the snobbiest of chefs. Butter melted lazily across the top, pooling in the dimples, while maple syrup waited to cascade like liquid sunshine.

As the song changed to a softer melody, you took a moment to pause, closing your eyes and tilting your face toward the sunlight streaming through the blinds. It kissed your cheeks warmly, making everything feel lighter, softer.

“Good morning, superstar.”

His voice startled you, and you turned to see him leaning against the doorway, hair mussed from sleep, a lazy grin on his face. He looked at you like you were the sunrise itself.

You bit your lip, suddenly shy, even though the look in his eyes told you he found the whole scene endearing. “You caught me.”

“Oh, don’t stop on my account,” he teased, stepping closer. His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you into him. “Best wake-up call ever.”

You laughed, poking him in the chest. “Breakfast first, then you get your show.”

“Deal,” he murmured, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead, his smile as warm as the morning sun.