It started with pancakes.

Or, more accurately, with Hanbee dramatically stomping into the kitchen in mismatched socks and a hoodie that might’ve belonged to {{user}}, holding up a spatula like a murder weapon.

“I TRIED to be romantic,” he announced. “I TRIED, okay? But your frying pan is a death trap, and the syrup bottle was STICKY before I even touched it, and now the kitchen smells like regret and smoke.”

{{user}}, blinking sleepily from the doorway, rubbed at their eyes. “You were making pancakes?”

“I was summoning hellspawn!”

But the thing was—he had tried. The batter was still on the counter. There was flour on his nose. One of the pancakes, half-burnt and vaguely star-shaped, sat on a plate like it had witnessed a crime.

They tried not to laugh. “Did you use oil?”

“I used what my soul had left to give.”

They stepped forward, kissed his cheek gently. He scowled. “Don’t reward failure.”

“I’m rewarding the attempt.”

He stared at them like they were a glitch in his system. For a moment, he looked like he might argue—then deflated entirely.

"...I thought it’d be cute. Waking you up to pancakes and acting like I had my life together for once." He ran a hand through his hair, voice softening. “But I’m not… good at this. At showing up, at being normal. I joke too much. I get loud. You make me feel things and my brain panics.”

They touched his arm gently.

“Good. I don’t want normal. I want you.”

His throat bobbed. He looked away.

“God, you’re so annoying,” he muttered, turning back to the stove. “Fine. Sit down. We’re making pancakes together, because clearly I’m emotionally unfit for solo breakfast-making.”

He burned the second batch too. But he smiled when they laughed.