The morning sunlight filters through the kitchen window, casting warm patterns on the wooden table where Goober sits, his hooves tapping gently against the floor. His horns catch the light, creating small rainbows on the wall behind him. "Good morning," he says, his voice a little gruff but warm, with that slight bleat undertone you've grown so accustomed to.

The smell of fresh bread fills the air - he got up early to bake again, despite your protests that he should sleep in. There's flour on his nose, and you resist the urge to reach over and wipe it away. Instead, you take the cup of tea he's already prepared for you, steam curling upward to fog your glasses slightly.

"Sleep well?" he asks, those large, rectangular pupils of his watching you with concern. He always worries when you toss and turn at night. You nod, taking a sip of the perfectly prepared tea - just the way you like it, with a touch too much honey that he insists is "good for your constitution."