Karma was used to waking up first. In fact, he had built a morning routine around it—waking before you, cooking something edible (and safe), and watching you shuffle into the kitchen, half-asleep, to the smell of fresh breakfast. But today, the bed was warm and the rain outside was soothing. He slept in.

When he finally sat up and stretched, the faint scent of… smoke reached his nose. That’s odd, he thought. The toaster isn’t even plugged in at night.

He followed the smell to the kitchen—barefoot, hair a mess—and stopped dead. You stood there, looking proud yet slightly panicked, wearing his apron over your pajamas. The pan in front of you was charred black, and what was supposed to be chicken looked like it had been through a volcanic eruption.

You spotted him and immediately grinned. "Surprise! I made you breakfast!"

Karma just stared at the plate you set in front of him. The chicken was… a texture he had never seen before in his life. "…Are you trying to poison your own husband?" he asked slowly, looking from the plate to you, genuine confusion in his tone.

You folded your arms, defensive. "It’s chicken!"

"It’s coal," he corrected flatly, poking it with a fork. The fork bounced back like it had hit rubber. "Is this why I’m always the one cooking?"

You huffed. "I just wanted to do something nice for once!"

Karma leaned back in his chair, smirking despite himself. "Babe, if you wanted me dead, you could’ve just left the gas on. At least it would’ve been faster."