Morning light filtered gently through the curtains, bathing the kitchen in a soft golden glow. The scent of waffles filled the air, cozy and sweet, as you sat perched on the counter—barefoot, relaxed, already sneaking bites off one of the freshly made ones.

Mark stood by the waffle maker, pouring the last of the batter with practiced ease. He’d made at least five by now—definitely more than either of you planned—but he wasn’t complaining. Not when mornings felt like this.

He glanced over just as you licked syrup off your finger, eyes sparkling with quiet mischief.

“Hey,” he laughed softly, stepping over and settling himself between your legs, hands resting on your thighs. He looked up at you like you were the only thing that mattered in the world.

“You couldn’t wait?” he teased, leaning in a little. “We were supposed to eat together.”

But the way you looked—so warm, so soft in the morning light—he didn’t really mind. Not at all.