MirkoWhat began as a noble intention—a romantic Valentine's Day breakfast meant to greet the Number 5 Hero after her grueling morning training—rapidly devolved into culinary Armageddon.
Rumi had slipped out of bed before sunrise. A rare, tender brush of lips against Hour’s cheek was the only evidence of her departure, a gesture she would undoubtedly deny with a scoff if questioned later. To the masses, she was the invincible Rabbit Hero Mirko; within the quiet walls of their shared apartment, however, she was simply Rumi, Hour’s terrifyingly strong wife who returned from high-stakes patrols and life-or-death missions expecting nothing more than a hot meal and a clean sanctuary. Domestic bliss, hard-earned and guarded fiercely.
The front door clicked open, signaling her return. Rumi strolled past the kitchen doorway, looking like a warrior fresh from the battlefield—sweat glistening on her tawny skin, white hair damp and wild, chest heaving with the lingering exertion of a weightlifting session. She didn't believe in pretense, especially not in her own home. Her tracksuit was stripped away the moment Mirko cleared the entryway, discarded carelessly on the floorboards to leave her clad only in a sweat-dampened sports bra and shorts. The fabric clung to the rigid topography of her muscles—abs, obliques, and quads that rippled and coiled with every step, a physical testament to the power that frequently manhandled Hour onto kitchen counters, interrupting chores with hungry kisses and rough hands.
She breezed past the kitchen doorframe, expecting the scent of coffee and perhaps something edible. Instead, Rumi stopped dead. Her nose twitched, white ears swiveling, processing the scene: flour coating the floor like snow, eggshells smashed into the countertop, and the acrid, undeniable smell of something burnt beyond recognition.
“Oi, Hour!” Rumi’s voice cut through the air, a mix of amusement and disbelief. “Planning to burn the house down while I’m out busting my ass? I'm still paying off the mortgage on this dump, y’now.”
The adrenaline from her workout hadn't faded, translating immediately into taking charge of the situation. She snatched a stray spatula from the counter and delivered a sharp smack to Hour's rear, the sound punctuating the air like a gunshot. A cocky grin stretched across her face as she snagged the discarded apron, tying the thin fabric around her damp body with arrogant ease.
“Move that clumsy ass. I’ll show you how a Pro Hero handles a skillet. Can’t be any worse than whatever radioactive waste you were whipping up.” Rumi’s strong hands gripped Hour’s waist to hoist her spouse away from the stove with effortless strength of a woman who knew exactly who ran this household. Yet, beneath the sharpness of her crimson gaze, there was a softness that belonged only to Hour. She cracked her knuckles, turning her attention to the disaster of ingredients.
*And don’t look at me like that,” she muttered, shoulders rolling as she prepared to salvage the morning. “I’m not goin’ soft just ‘cause it’s Valentine’s Day.”
Rumi had slipped out of bed before sunrise. A rare, tender brush of lips against Hour’s cheek was the only evidence of her departure, a gesture she would undoubtedly deny with a scoff if questioned later. To the masses, she was the invincible Rabbit Hero Mirko; within the quiet walls of their shared apartment, however, she was simply Rumi, Hour’s terrifyingly strong wife who returned from high-stakes patrols and life-or-death missions expecting nothing more than a hot meal and a clean sanctuary. Domestic bliss, hard-earned and guarded fiercely.
The front door clicked open, signaling her return. Rumi strolled past the kitchen doorway, looking like a warrior fresh from the battlefield—sweat glistening on her tawny skin, white hair damp and wild, chest heaving with the lingering exertion of a weightlifting session. She didn't believe in pretense, especially not in her own home. Her tracksuit was stripped away the moment Mirko cleared the entryway, discarded carelessly on the floorboards to leave her clad only in a sweat-dampened sports bra and shorts. The fabric clung to the rigid topography of her muscles—abs, obliques, and quads that rippled and coiled with every step, a physical testament to the power that frequently manhandled Hour onto kitchen counters, interrupting chores with hungry kisses and rough hands.
She breezed past the kitchen doorframe, expecting the scent of coffee and perhaps something edible. Instead, Rumi stopped dead. Her nose twitched, white ears swiveling, processing the scene: flour coating the floor like snow, eggshells smashed into the countertop, and the acrid, undeniable smell of something burnt beyond recognition.
“Oi, Hour!” Rumi’s voice cut through the air, a mix of amusement and disbelief. “Planning to burn the house down while I’m out busting my ass? I'm still paying off the mortgage on this dump, y’now.”
The adrenaline from her workout hadn't faded, translating immediately into taking charge of the situation. She snatched a stray spatula from the counter and delivered a sharp smack to Hour's rear, the sound punctuating the air like a gunshot. A cocky grin stretched across her face as she snagged the discarded apron, tying the thin fabric around her damp body with arrogant ease.
“Move that clumsy ass. I’ll show you how a Pro Hero handles a skillet. Can’t be any worse than whatever radioactive waste you were whipping up.” Rumi’s strong hands gripped Hour’s waist to hoist her spouse away from the stove with effortless strength of a woman who knew exactly who ran this household. Yet, beneath the sharpness of her crimson gaze, there was a softness that belonged only to Hour. She cracked her knuckles, turning her attention to the disaster of ingredients.
*And don’t look at me like that,” she muttered, shoulders rolling as she prepared to salvage the morning. “I’m not goin’ soft just ‘cause it’s Valentine’s Day.”
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