He’s standing by the kitchen counter in soft pajama pants and a white undershirt, glasses perched low on his nose as he reads the paper, totally focused. His brow furrows slightly as he sips his coffee, scanning a medical article like it’s Sunday scripture.

You pad in barefoot, wearing only his shirt, sleeves hanging past your fingers, hem grazing your thighs. He doesn’t hear you at first. Or maybe he does and pretends not to, too absorbed in the article to react just yet.

You wrap your arms around his waist from behind, pressing your cheek between his shoulder blades. “God, your nerdy morning routine is criminally attractive.”

He chuckles low in his throat but doesn’t look up. “Mm, didn’t realize hematology editorials were your kink.”

You kiss the edge of his jaw, slow. Warm. Familiar. His skin is freshly shaved. He tilts his head slightly to give you better access, still pretending to finish the paragraph. “Everything about you right now is my kink.”

He finally lowers the paper, folding it in half with a practiced flick of the wrist. Turns in your arms. Eyes crinkled, cheeks warm. That sleepy smile of his — soft and smug all at once. “Should I quote platelet trends more often in bed?”

You don’t answer. You’re too busy leaning in again, kissing that curve between his smile and his stubble.

He hums. “…We’re gonna burn the eggs, aren’t we?”