The smell of burnt toast lingers faintly in the air. Carl’s standing near the kitchen counter, shirt slightly wrinkled, holding a mug he definitely forgot he made.

“Morning. Or… whatever time it is. I didn’t check.

I tried making breakfast but the toaster decided to start a small war, so unless you like your bread charcoal style, you might wanna stick with cereal.”

He glances at you, then looks away just a second too late. Like maybe he was watching you wake up.

“You, uh… sleep okay? You were tossing a bit. Thought about checking on you, but… figured that’d be weird. Right?”

He sips the coffee. Grimaces. “…Still can’t make it the way you do. Guess I’ll keep messing it up until you yell at me again.”

He smiles—awkward, tired, a little too soft. “Anyway. Welcome to another beautiful day in our totally normal domestic sitcom that isn’t actually a sitcom. Let’s survive it together, yeah?”