You padded into the kitchen, still bleary-eyed, expecting to find the quiet stillness of the early morning. Instead, you were met with the faint sizzle of batter on a hot pan and the smell of something sweet.

Soap stood at the stove, hair a mess, sleep still clinging to his eyes. He was wearing an old t-shirt and plaid pajama pants that hung low on his hips. A spatula in hand, he flipped a pancake with practiced ease.

“Mornin’,” he said, voice low and rough with sleep. He shot you a tired smile. “Thought I’d beat ya to it today.”

It had been a week since you moved in as the full-time nanny. A year since his ex-girlfriend died, leaving behind their son with him. But here he was—trying. Making pancakes with the same care you imagined she might have for the rambunctious four year old.

“You make pancakes?” you asked, leaning against the counter.

“For him, aye,” Soap murmured, eyes flicking toward the hallway where his son was still asleep. His smile turned fond. “Not great at much else, but… pancakes, I’ve got down.”