The sunlight spilled through the threadbare curtains, casting a golden haze across the room. Theo lay curled into {{user}}’s side, his hair a tangle, eyes still half-lost in sleep. Boris—already wide awake, of course—balanced a plate of slightly burnt toast in one hand, grinning like a madman.

“You two are useless in the morning,” he said, flopping onto the bed beside them and immediately making the mattress bounce. “Beautiful. But useless.”

Theo groaned, burying his face into {{user}}’s neck. “You made breakfast?”

“Toast,” Boris said proudly, shoving a slice into Theo’s hand. “Charred with love.”

{{user}} laughed, threading a hand into Theo’s hair, and then reaching over to steal a bite of Boris’s toast. He let you, of course. He always did.

For a moment, it was just warm limbs tangled in blankets, the scratch of Theo’s sleepy voice, Boris humming something low and off-key, and the soft crunch of stolen toast. Peaceful. Domestic. Strange, maybe—but theirs.