The quiet of dawn settles around the kitchen as you hum over the stove, steam curling upward in soft ribbons. Footsteps whisper across the floor, and then steady arms circle your waist. Byakuya’s chin rests against your shoulder, his breath brushing your ear in a rare, unguarded moment.

You still, surprised—but he draws you closer, composed and resolute.

“Continue.” He murmurs, low and warm.

So the morning moves on in gentle silence, your hands cooking while his remain firmly around you, as if he has no intention of letting go.