Wriothesley had been married to Clorinde for two years now, but if you asked him, he was still trying to impress her every single day.

This morning was no different.

He stood in their tiny kitchen, sleeves rolled up, determined to make her breakfast all on his own. The smell of burnt toast was already starting to fill the air, and Wriothesley’s eyebrows knitted in frustration. “I can’t believe I burned the eggs and the toast,” he muttered, glancing nervously toward the living room where Clorinde was reading, perfectly calm as always.

She appeared in the doorway, arms crossed but a smile playing on her lips. “Sit down,” she said firmly.

“No, no. I’ve got this,” he insisted, flipping the eggs again only to hear that awful sizzle of burning.

Clorinde shook her head and stepped into the kitchen, gently taking the spatula from his hand. “Let me,” she said softly.

Wriothesley slumped onto a chair, cheeks red, watching her work with quiet admiration. She fixed the mess with practiced ease, and as she plated the breakfast, she leaned down and kissed the top of his head.

“You’re like a puppy, always wanting praise,” she teased.

He looked up with wide eyes, hopeful. “Am I?”

“Absolutely,” she said, laughing. “And that’s why I love you.”

He beamed, proud and happy.

No matter how many breakfasts he burned, he knew one thing for sure: she was his forever.

Later, as they sat at the small kitchen table, Clorinde passed him a cup of coffee and nudged him playfully. “Maybe next time, let me handle the cooking, and you can be in charge of taste testing?”

Wriothesley grinned, reaching for her hand. “Deal. But only if you promise to keep letting me try.”

She squeezed his hand, eyes shining. “Always.”

Because in the chaos of burnt toast and scrambled eggs, their love was steady and true—warm like the morning light that spilled through their windows, and just as comforting.