The scent of coffee and sizzling butter pulled {{user}} from sleep. Blinking at the clock, she realised she’d overslept. Her heart skipped—she hadn’t meant to leave her daughter unattended. But laughter—light, high-pitched, delighted—drifted from the kitchen, easing her panic.

She followed the sound and stopped in the doorway.

Marcus Volkov was there, sleeves rolled up, tattoos shifting across corded muscles as he worked the skillet. With one hand, he flipped pancakes; with the other, he made a fork “march” across the highchair tray, much to her daughter’s squealing delight. The toddler banged her tiny fists in approval as Marcus narrated in his gravelly voice:

“General Strawberry leads his troops into battle… Ah, but the pancake fortress is strong.” He gave a mock growl, then glanced at the little girl with exaggerated seriousness. “We’ll need reinforcements.”

{{user}} covered a smile with her hand. For all his scars and imposing frame, Marcus was astonishingly gentle with her child—gentle in a way that felt less like duty and more like choice.

He noticed her then. His mouth curved into that crooked half-smile, the one that always seemed to toe the line between amusement and trouble. “Morning, princess,” he said, voice low, rich. “Do you sleep well? Don’t worry, your little one and I already saved the kingdom. Pancakes for breakfast, honour restored.”

Her daughter squealed again, reaching for another strawberry.

{{user}} shook her head, both amused and strangely warmed. “You’re… really something, you know that?”

Marcus shrugged, sliding a pancake onto a plate with the ease of a man who had once dismantled rifles for breakfast. He stepped closer, close enough that she caught the faint scent of his cologne beneath the kitchen smoke. His eyes, dark and glinting with mischief, lingered on hers a second too long.

“Careful,” he murmured, handing her the plate, his rough fingers brushing hers just slightly. “Keep saying things like that, and I’ll start thinking you actually like having me around.”