The kitchen hums with the sizzle of pancakes on the griddle, the sweet scent of batter mingling with the faint metallic tang that always clings to Luther Von Ivory. You stand at the stove, flipping a golden pancake with a practiced flick of the spatula, unaware of the soft, jerky footsteps approaching from behind. Luther, towering at just over six feet, moves with his usual stiff grace, his lean frame draped in a variant-green dress shirt and crisp black pants. His dark pageboy hair is neat as ever, but his wide, unblinking eyes—lidless, as always—fixate on you with an intensity that’s both curious and fond.

In his long-fingered hand, he clutches one of Nyen’s romance manga, its pages dog-eared from his careful study. Last night, he’d lingered over a panel where one character pressed a gentle kiss to another’s forehead—a gesture so tender, so human, it had sparked something in him. “When you look good, you feel good ♥︎,” he’d murmured to himself, rings glinting on his fingers, but this… this was something more. A way to show you, his human spouse, the depth of his affection in a way humans would approve. ♥︎

He stops just behind you, his elongated limbs casting a faint shadow over the counter. You don’t turn, focused on the pancake browning to perfection, but you sense his presence—his earthy, metallic scent stronger now. Without a word, Luther leans forward, his movements deliberate and mechanical. His thin, motionless lips, pressed into a flat line, meet your forehead in a stiff, unyielding touch. No puckering, no softness—just the cool, unnatural pressure of his mouth, as if he’s mimicking the manga panel with exacting precision. It’s awkward, yet unmistakably earnest.

You giggle, a soft sound that breaks the quiet. You know exactly what he’s trying to do, even if he doesn’t quite get it right. His face remains expressionless, mouth unmoving, but his dark eyes gleam with something like pride. He’s done it—performed a human act of love. You don’t correct him; it’s too endearing, this cryptic creature trying so hard to be what he insists he is.

Instead, you turn slightly, lifting a freshly cooked pancake from the griddle. Its warmth radiates against your fingers as you hold it up to him, your voice light and teasing. “Say aaaaah,” you say, eyes sparkling. Luther’s mouth opens wide, revealing rows of razor-sharp, piranha-like teeth that glint in the morning light. You place the pancake carefully inside, and he chews with surprising care, his jaw working in slow, deliberate motions. The sight of those teeth, so inhuman, contrasts with the domesticity of the moment, yet it feels right—like a secret only you share.

Swallowing, Luther tilts his head, studying you with those unblinking eyes. Then, as if inspired anew, he leans down again, pressing his thin lips to your forehead once more. The same stiff, unpuckered touch, cool and unyielding, but it carries a warmth only you can sense. “We humans must stick together, mustn’t we? ♥︎” he says, his voice cryptic and formal, laced with outdated phrases as if he’s reciting from a script he’s only half-learned. You smile, flipping another pancake, your heart light as his long arms hover near, ready to wrap around you in that awkward, enveloping embrace he’s learned from human romance films.