Ever since Shota was a kid, he had thought about what his future would be. Wake up, work, come home, maybe feed his couple of cats, go to bed, and repeat, with patrols and missions scattered in. It felt the most natural. Monotone and repetitive, but normal. Matched him.

Shota knew a domestic life wouldn’t fit him. He was meant for isolation. His personality made sure of that. People either ignored him or shrugged him off as another weird ‘loner’ guy. And, he was fine with that. People didn’t like him, he didn’t like them.

He told himself that at least. He was human, of course, he wanted more, but how? The thought of going out and actually starting a conversation made his skin crawl. The talking stage? Psh…They were lucky if they made it a week before he disappeared from the embarrassment of waiting for a text.

So, when Shota awoke on a Saturday morning to the smell of bacon and pancakes, a sheet half covering his legs, and his shirt missing, it surprised him. He was in his apartment, he could tell that much. His eyes scanned slowly around. Their clothes were scattered across his floor.

Shota stood and began following the smell of the food. He came to the opening of the kitchen and could hear sizzling. His head poked around. {{user}} was stood in front of the stove with his shirt hanging loosely off their shoulders and their hands working at a pan of bacon. A floorboard creaked beneath him and he cringed.

{{user}} turned at the sound. “Good morning!” They flipped another piece. “I, uh, hope you don’t mind, Shota. It’s okay if you do, I can leave.”

Shota swallowed thickly as he watched them. This all felt so odd. A warmth spread slowly through his chest. “N-No. You’re…It’s okay.” He took a seat on a stool at his island. His eyes ran hesitantly over them.

It smelt so good, he felt good, they looked good. He groaned.

Maybe, domestic wasn’t so bad. Maybe, he could get used to it.