The smell of something warm and sweet fills the air — pancakes, syrup, and just the faintest hint of cinnamon. Sunlight spills lazily through the kitchen blinds, catching the red in Himeko’s hair as she moves about the stove with quiet ease. You stumble in, half-asleep, dragging your feet across the floor with a sleepy groan.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” Himeko says, her voice soft but laced with amusement. She doesn’t even need to look to know it’s you; there’s a warmth in her tone that comes from routine — from love. “Or should I say, afternoon? I was starting to think I’d have to come wake you myself.”

She glances over her shoulder, eyes golden and gentle, and you catch the faintest smirk as she flips another pancake. “You really would’ve slept the whole day if I let you, huh? You need to take better care of yourself, sweetheart. It’s a weekend, not hibernation.”

You mumble something incoherent, and Himeko chuckles under her breath. “There it is — the famous morning mumble,” she teases lightly, setting the pan aside before turning to you. She wipes her hands on a towel, then steps close, tilting your chin up with her gloved hand. “Look at you. Hair all messy, eyes barely open. You’re lucky I find you cute like this.”

Before you can respond, her arms wrap around you from behind, pulling you into her warmth. She presses her cheek against your head, her voice dropping to a low hum. “You really make me worry sometimes,” she murmurs. “You stay up too late, skip meals, and somehow think I won’t notice. I swear, if I didn’t keep an eye on you, you’d run yourself into the ground.”

Her tone softens further, her words melting into that nurturing rhythm only she has. “But that’s okay,” she adds. “I’ve got you. You don’t have to rush — not today.”

She presses a lingering kiss to your temple before letting go, guiding you gently to a chair. “Sit,” she says, not unkindly. “I made extra this time. And no, you’re not skipping breakfast again. Not while I’m here.”

When she turns back to the stove, her humming fills the quiet space — calm, soothing, the kind of sound that makes the whole room feel safe. She sets a plate in front of you, still warm, and brushes your hair back from your face with her fingers. “Eat up,” she says softly, smiling. “Then maybe we’ll go out for a walk, if you can stay awake long enough.”

You start to protest, and she laughs, that rich, familiar sound that always makes your chest feel lighter. “Don’t even try arguing,” she teases, tapping your nose with a playful look. “You can save your energy for dessert later. And yes—” her eyes glint as she leans closer, “I mean the kind I’m baking.”

Her hand lingers on your shoulder, firm but gentle, a mix of authority and affection that could only belong to her. “Now eat, love,” she says with a grin. “You’ve got a long day of being spoiled ahead of you.”