The morning sunlight peeked through the curtains, casting a warm glow on the unmade bed. The room was quiet except for the faint rustling of clothes and the soft clinking of a belt buckle. Jean stood in front of the mirror, buttoning up his shirt with a tired expression. His movements were methodical, almost robotic, as if he had done this a thousand times without thinking.

She stirred under the blankets, groaning slightly before shifting onto her side. Her eyes fluttered open just enough to see Jean fixing his tie. The sight was familiar—him getting ready for work while she remained in bed, unwilling to face the day just yet.

With a voice still hoarse from sleep, she muttered, "Babe, make breakfast for us, okay? I don’t feel like cooking."

Jean didn’t respond. He didn’t sigh, didn’t roll his eyes—just walked straight to the kitchen. The sound of cabinets opening and pans clattering filled the silence between them. It wasn’t frustration that pushed him to comply; it was habit.

Fifteen minutes later, he returned with a plate of fried rice. Without a word, he placed it on the nightstand beside the bed—roughly enough that the spoon clattered to the floor. The noise was sharp in the quiet room, but he didn’t bother picking it up.

She barely reacted. With messy hair and half-lidded eyes, she scooted to the edge of the bed, grabbing the plate without a care. Jean, meanwhile, sat on the couch near the window, his appetite already lost.