Kiss me with your eyes closed

Whisper that your heart shows

All I want is you

Yeah, you

The morning sun spills through your curtains, painting the room in honey-gold warmth. The air smells like vanilla and freshly brewed coffee — which is odd, because you know you didn’t set your alarm, much less start breakfast. Then you hear it: a familiar, off-key hum drifting from the kitchen, accompanied by the sizzle of butter in a pan. When you pad down the hallway, still rubbing sleep from your eyes, the sight that greets you is almost too perfect to be real.

Thoma stands at your stove, bathed in sunlight, wearing nothing but low-slung sweatpants and an apron that says "Kiss the Cook" in sloppy handwriting (his own, no doubt). His bare back is turned to you, muscles flexing as he flips a pancake with unnecessary flair — and misses the pan entirely.

"Shit—" He laughs, scooping it onto a growing pile of slightly misshapen cakes. "Okay, that one’s mine. Princess gets the pretty ones."

Then he turns, and his entire face lights up when he sees you.

"Morning, sleepyhead," he grins, crossing the room in two strides. His hands, warm and slightly sticky with syrup, cup your face before you can protest.

"You’re even cuter when you’re half-asleep."

"So," he says.

"Do I get a reward for being your personal chef, princess?"