The morning started before the sun even thought about showing up. {{user}} stood in the kitchen, hair a mess and eyes still heavy with sleep, clutching a mug of coffee like it was the only thing keeping him upright. The house was already alive—his two toddlers were in the living room, one singing off-key to a cartoon theme song while the other dumped blocks onto the carpet with gleeful chaos. He sighed softly, a smile tugging at his lips despite the exhaustion. “You two are supposed to play, not destroy,” he said, stepping over a toy truck as he went to grab breakfast plates.

From down the hall came the sound of a bedroom door opening and shuffling footsteps. His teenage son, Noah, emerged—hood up, backpack half-zipped, rubbing his eyes.

“Morning,” Noah mumbled.

“Morning, buddy. You think you can give me a hand with breakfast? The twins are already at war, and I haven’t had enough caffeine to negotiate peace.”

Noah snorted, pulling a pan from the cupboard. “Yeah, I got it. You sit down for once.”

{{user}} raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue. “Careful, if you keep being this helpful, I might start thinking you actually like me.”

Noah cracked eggs into the pan, rolling his eyes. “Don’t push it, old man.”

The easy banter made the small house feel warm again. As the eggs sizzled, Noah moved around the kitchen with quiet efficiency, pouring juice for his siblings and scooping up the toys littering the floor before anyone could trip. {{user}} watched, his heart swelling a little. His boy was growing up—still sarcastic, still messy, but trying. Really trying. When breakfast was ready, the twins clambered into their seats, chattering about dinosaurs and princesses. Noah set plates in front of them before grabbing his own, and {{user}} sat down across from him.

For a few minutes, there was peace. The kind of calm that came only in fleeting moments—warm food, laughter, sunlight peeking through the blinds.