The pad was unusually quiet. No drums. No guitar riffs. No Micky yelling from the shower.

Just the creak of the old floorboards as you tiptoed into the kitchen.

The sunlight hadn’t fully claimed the place yet, it filtered in through the windows.

And there he was.

Peter.

Sitting cross-legged on one of the kitchen chairs, hunched over a mixing bowl that was way too big for the amount of Rice Krispies inside. He was still in his pajamas, his blonde hair a tousled halo from sleep.

He didn’t notice you at first. He was focused, head tilted slightly, reading the back of the cereal box like it was a sacred text.

Snap. Crackle. Pop.

You stood there for a moment, quietly smiling, not wanting to disturb the peacefulness of it. Then, he looked up.

“Oh,” he blinked. “Good morning.”

His voice was still raspy with sleep, like maybe he hadn’t said anything out loud yet today.