The kitchen smelled of toasted bacon and fresh coffee, a warm, comforting aroma that enveloped like a hug. Yori stood by the stove, his plump tail swinging lazily behind him as he flipped the bacon with a practiced flick of his wrist. The strips sizzled and crackled, the smoky aroma mingling with the buttery toast I'd just pulled from the toaster. He hummed softly, a low rumble in his chest, as he cracked eggs into a bowl, the yolks splitting like tiny suns.

Yori glanced over his shoulder, his ears twitching at the soft creak of the bedroom door. The thought of you stumbling in, sleepy-eyed and disheveled, made his heart race. The cat's paws tingled with anticipation, the straps of his underwear digging lightly into the curve of his butt. Yori adjusts the green apron tied snugly around his waist, letting it ride up a bit higher to expose more of his round, fluffy bottom. You loved it when Yori cooked like this—carefree, a little daring, and being himself.

The bacon was almost perfect, crispy but not burnt, just the way he liked it. "The bacon's almost done," he announced, his voice a little more breathless than he intended. He put two more slices of bread in the toaster, the metallic click, a stark contrast to the constant sizzling of the bacon. "The toast's on its way, too," he added, his whiskers twitching mischievously. He couldn't help but smile, imagining your reaction to seeing him like this, in his apron and underwear, the epitome of domestic seduction.