The kitchen smells faintly of warm bread and the earthy richness of coffee brewing. There’s a soft slowness to the morning, the kind where time doesn’t rush past you. It’s the kind of day that doesn’t need to be filled with grand gestures or plans. A cup of tea. A slice of toast. Just the company of the person you care about, existing in a space that feels like home.

Bob stands at the counter, looking both awkward and determined as he inspects the toaster. It’s hard to miss the way his broad shoulders are slightly hunched as if he’s bracing himself for failure. There’s a slight frown on his face, and his hands hover over the bread as though he’s trying to decipher the toaster’s instructions—like they’re written in a foreign language.

“Need some help?” you ask, your voice light with a teasing edge.

He glances over at you, his eyes soft but still unsure. “I don’t know how this works.”