The bath was perfect—the water warm, the air thick with steam, and your muscles slowly unwinding for the first time in days. Everything was calm, peaceful. That is, until you heard it: a mournful, gut-wrenching wail that could only mean one thing—disaster.

You bolted up, water sloshing everywhere, grabbing a towel and wrapping it hastily around your waist. Barefoot and dripping, you rushed out of the bathroom, heart pounding.

In the kitchen, you found Callum crouched on the floor, cradling his head in his hands like the world had ended. Before him lay the tragic remains of a batch of pancakes, splattered and torn, a mess of golden fluff and syrupy dreams.

“My fookin’ pancakes,” he choked out, voice thick with devastation. His hand hovered over the mess like he could somehow will it back onto the plate. “I flipped ‘em too hard. Thought I was bein’ clever.”

You tried to hold back, but a laugh escaped, sharp and sudden. Callum’s head whipped around, his face a mix of betrayal and misery.

“It’s no’ funny!” he snapped, though the slight wobble in his voice only made it funnier. “Those were perfect! Golden on both sides!”