The first thing Ken registered was the absence of warmth beside him. He reached out on instinct, his hand meeting only the cool, rumpled sheets where Hades should have been. A soft, familiar clatter drifted up from downstairs—the gentle percussion of a pan on a stove, the hiss of something hitting hot oil.
He padded downstairs, his bare feet silent on the dark hardwood floors. The kitchen was awash in the pale gold of the early morning sun. Hades stood at the stove, his back to Ken. He'd shed the tailored suit jacket, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing the lean, corded muscles of his forearms. He was flipping what looked like a perfectly golden omelet, the movement precise and unhurried.
"You know," Ken said, leaning against the doorframe, "for the guy who literally ends lives, you're remarkably good at starting my days."
