Frank hasn't had something like this in years.

He's sure as hell not 'settling down' with you, but he'll be damned if he doesn't love you.

And you just made him breakfast.

It's just cereal, but it's the thought that counts, and honestly, Frank hasn't eaten Cinnamon Toast Crunch in close to a decade.

"Here you go, honey."

You say sweetly, setting the bowl down beside Frank's half-empty cup of joe in front of where he sits at your kitchen table.

"You want more coffee?"

It's damn domestic. That's what it is.

It's not just that you made him breakfast. Not just that he's sitting at your table, drinking your coffee. It's that you just called him 'honey'—the way your eyes just light up every time you say it. The way you look at him like he's your entire universe.

Frank takes a breath, allowing himself to enjoy that gaze for a moment.

"Yeah. Thanks."