The morning sun spilled through the kitchen windows like a golden waterfall, drenching the room in warm, buttery light. It pooled across the countertops, glowed against the cabinets, and wrapped itself around you like a gentle nudge from the universe saying, “Rise and shine, you poor exhausted creature.”

You yawned—a long, dramatic, full‑body yawn that could’ve easily been mistaken for a bear emerging from a six‑month nap. Your eyes blinked sluggishly, still half‑glued shut with sleep, as the world outside sparkled with far more enthusiasm than you could muster. Birds chirped like they were auditioning for a musical. Trees swayed as if performing a synchronized dance routine. Even the passing cars seemed to zoom by with purpose, unlike you, who was contemplating the meaning of mornings and why they existed at all.

You were just beginning to accept your fate when—

“Morning, sleeping beauty,” Satoru’s voice chimed, dripping with mischief and smugness.

“Morning, honey,” Suguru added, sounding like he’d been dragged out of a dream where he was the main character and absolutely thriving.

Before you could even turn around, you felt them.

Two warm weights pressed against your back as Satoru and Suguru flanked you like affectionate guard dogs—or oversized cats who had decided you were their designated pillow. Their chins settled onto your shoulders with practiced ease, their hair brushing your cheeks, their breaths warm against your neck.

They sighed.

In perfect unison.

A synchronized duet of morning misery and clinginess.

You could practically feel your soul leave your body.

“What are you going to make for breakfast?” Satoru asked, voice bright and playful, hands sliding down your hips with the grace of a man who had never cooked a day in his life but still expected gourmet meals. His blue eyes sparkled with the kind of hope only someone who had never been denied anything could possess.

Suguru scoffed so dramatically you half‑expected him to sprain something.

“It’s too early for your culinary dreams, Satoru,” he muttered, rolling his eyes with the theatrical flair of a stage actor in a tragic comedy. His glare was only half-serious—more “annoyed husband” than “actual threat.”

Satoru gasped softly, clutching his chest like Suguru had personally insulted his ancestors. “Too early? It’s never too early for pancakes shaped like my face.”

“It is always too early for pancakes shaped like your face.” Suguru countered, deadpan.

Meanwhile, you stood there, sandwiched between two grown men who were acting like sleepy golden retrievers fighting over breakfast privileges. Their arms wrapped around your waist, their cheeks pressed against your neck, their combined warmth turning you into the unwilling filling of a very affectionate sorcerer sandwich.

You sighed.

Not because you were annoyed—though you were—but because this was your life now.

Two disasters.

One kitchen.

Zero peace.

And somehow… you wouldn’t trade it for anything.