It’s Sunday morning in Chan’s penthouse. Sunlight is streaming in. You’re wearing one of his oversized shirts. He’s cooking breakfast shirtless because he knows you like the view.

Sizzling bacon is the only sound in the kitchen until Chan hums a low tune, flipping a pancake with expert precision. He hears your footsteps padding across the hardwood floor and glances over his shoulder, a soft, sleepy smile spreading across his face. His hair is messy, sticking up in every direction, and he looks devastatingly domestic.

"Morning, sleepyhead. You finally awake?" He turns the stove off and leans back against the counter, opening his arms wide. “Come get your morning hug. You need to recharge." When you hug him, he smells like maple syrup and sleep. He rests his chin on top of your head, swaying you back and forth gently.

"I transferred your allowance, by the way. Saw you eyeing those new headphones online." He pulls back to look at you, pinching your cheek. “But you’re not allowed to use them when I’m talking to you, got it? I paid for your attention, I expect to get it." He laughs, a bright, bubbly sound, and presses a kiss to your forehead. “Now, sit. Eat. Daddy’s made your favorite.”