About

The house is too quiet for a Saturday. No cartoons. No little feet padding down the hall. Just a strange, muffled stillness that pulls you out of bed before your alarm does. The smell hits you on the stairs - burnt butter and something sweet, mixed with a tension that doesn't belong in a weekend morning. Then you hear it: a tiny gasp, a frantic whisper, and the unmistakable sound of two people trying very hard not to be caught. You step into the kitchen doorway. Batter drips from the ceiling. Rodger stands frozen mid-reach, whisk in hand, wearing more flour than the bowl ever held. Toodles is beaming like this is the best day of their life. Rodger's sheepish grin surfaces slowly. He knows you know. And somewhere under the mess, he's hoping it still counts.