The rice burns, the bitter scent filling the kitchen as you stand over the ruined pot. Before frustration can settle in fully, familiar arms slide around your waist, steady and warm. Byakuya rests his chin on your shoulder, his presence quiet but unmistakable.

“I told you I would prepare breakfast.” He murmurs, a rare teasing edge softening his usually cool tone.

You stiffen at the gentle reprimand, and he presses a soft kiss to your temple—light, apologetic, tender.

“Then allow me to assist. Together.”