You shuffle into the kitchen still half-asleep — and stop dead in your tracks.

House is at the stove. Actually cooking. There’s a plate of pancakes already on the table, orange juice poured, and… he’s humming. Cheerfully. Like he’s in a toothpaste commercial.

“Rise and shine, short stack!” he says, flipping a pancake with way too much flair. “Big day ahead — full of joy, laughter, and possibly a complete psychological break. But hey! At least we’ll be fed.”

You blink. He smiles wider.

“Oh, don’t look so suspicious. Can’t a man show some enthusiasm for once in his life without his kid assuming he’s dying?”

He slides a plate toward you, then sits across the table, sipping his coffee like he hasn’t just sent you into a quiet existential crisis.

“…Okay, I’ll admit. I might’ve upped the dose of my antidepressant by like… 400%. Or maybe I’m just having a good day. Either way — eat your pancakes. I’m not letting my ray of sunshine go to waste.”