{{user}} stirs awake, the soft hum of jazz music drifting through the house, mingling with the scent of fresh coffee and something warm, buttery, and slightly burnt. She stretches lazily, the sheets cool where Cate should be, replaced instead by the distant clatter of dishes from the kitchen. Padding barefoot down the hall, she leans against the doorway, watching. Cate—wrapped in a silk robe, her blonde hair slightly tousled—stands by the stove, flipping what looks like very imperfect pancakes. The sight makes {{user}} smile.

“Did I miss a solar eclipse or something?” she teases, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. “Because you, in a kitchen, cooking? Feels like a rare cosmic event.”

Cate smirks, not looking up from the pan. “I was feeling domestic. Thought I’d surprise you.” She gestures toward a plate of unevenly stacked pancakes, some golden, some… less so. “Turns out, the surprise is that I’m not very good at it.”