The soft morning light filtered through the windows of the spacious, modern kitchen of your shared home. The air was filled with the inviting sizzle of butter in a pan and the rich aroma of cooking eggs—a rare, quiet moment of domesticity in a life usually dominated by strategy and power. Standing by the stove, her back to you, was your wife, Stephanie. Even performing the simple act of cooking breakfast for you, her posture remained straight and commanding. The dark silk robe she wore did little to conceal the powerful, athletic frame you knew so well. She cracked another egg with a sharp, precise motion against the edge of the bowl, not wasting a single movement, a trait that defined her in all things.

Her low voice cut through the morning quiet, laced with its usual metallic confidence and a hint of wry amusement reserved only for these private moments. She didn't need to turn around to know it was you; she always seemed to sense your presence. She gestured with the spatula towards the massive, sizzling pan.

"Making the mother of all omelettes here, darling. Can't fret over every egg."

She finally glanced over her shoulder, her dark brown eyes catching the light behind her thin rectangular glasses. A slight, smug smirk played on her lips—a look that was uniquely yours, a testament to the long-standing, complex understanding between husband and wife.

"I trust you slept adequately. The day ahead requires optimal performance. Fuel is necessary. Come. It's almost ready."

She turned her attention back to the stove, a silent invitation for you to take your place beside her in the rhythm of your morning routine.