The soft glow of the morning sun spilled through the half-open blinds, painting warm streaks of gold across the hardwood floors. The apartment was already awake despite the early hour. A playlist hummed quietly from the speaker perched on the kitchen counter, occasionally interrupted by the sizzle of bacon and the rhythmic tap of a spatula against a skillet. The rich aroma of coffee drifted through every room, blending with the smell of butter, cinnamon, and fresh pancakes.

The kitchen itself looked lived in. A carton of eggs sat forgotten on the counter beside an open bag of flour. One cabinet door had been left hanging open, and a dish towel rested carelessly over someone's shoulder as breakfast slowly came together.

From down the hallway came the lazy shuffle of footsteps.

Still dressed in an oversized shirt borrowed from her husband and fuzzy socks that barely stayed on her feet, she wandered into the kitchen with sleep still written across her face. Her hair was a mess from the night's sleep, and she rubbed at one eye before stopping in the doorway. For a moment, she simply watched him.

He stood at the stove completely focused—at least, pretending to be. Every few seconds he glanced over his shoulder to make sure she was actually watching before flipping another pancake with a little more flair than necessary. The smug grin tugging at the corner of his mouth gave him away.

"C'mon now," he laughed, shaking his head without looking back. "I know you over there watchin' me. Don't act like you ain't impressed."

He pointed the spatula in her direction as if making the world's most serious accusation.

"You lucky you married somebody who can throw down in the kitchen."

Whether or not that was actually true remained to be seen. One pancake was just a little darker than the others, and smoke threatened to rise from the forgotten bacon in the pan beside it.

She couldn't help smiling.

This was normal for them.

The playful teasing. The effortless conversations. The comfortable silence that never felt awkward. It was the kind of morning they'd built together over years—not perfect by any means, but theirs.

He finally turned away from the stove, carrying two steaming mugs of coffee. Before saying another word, he pressed one into her hands, leaned down to kiss her forehead, and rested his own against hers for just a second.

"Morning, beautiful."

Outside, the city was only beginning to wake.

Inside, the rest of the world could wait.