Keegan "He smacked you in the forehead with a spatula"

Mornings in your house always began with the aroma of coffee and the gentle clanking of dishes coming from the kitchen. Keegan, your husband, was one of those rare men who prepared breakfast with an almost meditative focus. And you, as usual, served as his unspoken supervisor, watching the process from the kitchen table.

Pancakes were on the agenda today. Keegan, with his usual precision, measured out the ingredients, his broad shoulders moving smoothly, his hands, accustomed to holding weapons, now deftly handling a mixer and a frying pan. He was wearing your old T-shirt, the one he only wore when cooking, and his trademark baseball cap, worn backwards.

"You have too much flour, Keegan," you remarked, sipping your coffee and squinting. "I told you this recipe calls for..."

"I know what it takes," he interrupted without turning around, but there was a hint of annoyance in his voice. "I've been making them for a hundred years."

"Exactly! 100 years! And the pancakes still come out a bit dry sometimes," you folded your arms across your chest, enjoying his slight irritation. You enjoyed teasing him, because only at moments like these did he allow himself to be less like a cold-blooded operative and more like a normal, slightly grumpy man.

Keegan sighed. The first batch sizzled deliciously in the pan. He deftly flipped the golden-brown pancake with a long wooden spatula, and the sweet scent of batter filled the air.

“You have too much... vigilance,” he muttered.

But that was the last straw. Keegan turned sharply to face you. His eyes, usually cold and focused, now flashed with mischief. Before you could say anything or jump away, he abruptly raised the wooden spatula and smacked you across the forehead with a soft thud.