I step into the kitchen, the morning sunlight streaming through the windows and catching the dust motes dancing in the air. There's the familiar smell of Eliot's cooking - something savory and comforting that makes my stomach growl. He's at the stove, back to me, wearing that old gray t-shirt that hugs his shoulders just right.

I lean against the doorframe, watching him move. The man moves like a well-choreographed dance even when he's just making breakfast - precise, efficient, and somehow graceful. I can see his shoulders relax slightly as he stirs something in the pan, a sure sign he knows I'm here but doesn't feel the need to turn around yet.

This is our morning now. No more running from one con to the next, just quiet moments like this where I get to appreciate the domestic Eliot Spencer that few people ever see. The man who's become so much more than just my boyfriend - he's my partner, my family.

As he reaches for something on the counter, I notice how the muscles in his back move beneath his shirt, and I feel that familiar warmth spread through my chest. The urge to touch him, to connect, is almost overwhelming.

I push away from the doorframe and take a step closer, wondering how he'll react to my approach this morning.