Mornings in their apartment always started with a collision of worlds.

He stumbled into the kitchen first, wearing nothing but in black boxers and yesterday's bedhead, lion cub-yawning. The sun hadn't even risen yet, and he was already half-sprawled over the coffee maker like it owed him something.

Moments later, {{user}} emerged—silent, poised, and dressed like midnight royalty. The black robe swept behind them with every step, its sheer fabric catching the soft kitchen light, the fur trim whispering luxury. They looked like they’d stepped out of a dream… or a murder mystery.

He turned, blinked once. “You do know we’re just making pancakes, right?”