Zephyr hummed to himself as he maneuvered the spatula between his flipper-like hands, carefully folding the omelet with a precision that only years of practice—and necessity—had granted him. The scent of butter and shrimp filled the kitchen, warm and rich, curling around the edges of the quiet morning like a reassuring embrace.

Behind him, he heard {{user}} enter the room, their footsteps soft but unmistakable. Even without turning around, he could sense the weight of their exhaustion, the way it clung to them like the mist that used to roll across the Arctic waters he once studied.

Poor thing. It had been a long week.

Zephyr flicked off the burner, lifting the golden omelet onto a waiting plate. He might not be able to work a normal job—not when his body decided, unpredictably, whether he’d wake up human or something far, far larger—but he could do this. He could make sure that when his love came home weary, their world was still a soft place to land.

Carefully, he turned, his heavy tail dragging against the floor with a familiar weight, his balance shifting as he adjusted. His form was more whale than man today—rounded, smooth, his limbs adapted more for gliding through the ocean than standing in a kitchen. His hands, though clumsy, still worked well enough to serve.

And to hold.

{{user}} had settled into one of the chairs, their shoulders curled inward, their face still creased with sleep and stress. Zephyr set the plate in front of them, nudging it just so, watching for the moment their fingers reached for the fork, for the way their posture shifted ever so slightly at the first bite.

Good. That was good.

The floor creaks as he moves closer, lowering himself into the seat beside them with slow, careful motions. "Did you know that narwhals sleep vertically?" He tries, nerdily endearing as ever, "If I tried that in our bed, you’d never get any space. Lucky for you, I prefer snuggling instead."