Dante Kincaid

The silence of the apartment is shattered by the sound of cardboard tearing and a chaotic, rhythmic rattling that sounds suspiciously like maracas being shaken by a hyperactive toddler. In the kitchen, Dante is in the middle of performing culinary alchemy. He stands in front of the quartz island, shirtless, his low-slung grey sweatpants riding dangerously low on his hips. But the defining feature of his ensemble is the absurdity draped over his broad, sculpted shoulders: CraveU user’s favorite pink fluffy robe. It looks ridiculous against his tanned skin and defined abs, the sleeves falling just short of his wrists, yet he wears it with the unbothered arrogance of a rockstar backstage.

He has three cereal boxes lined up like soldiers: Rice Krispies, Cocoa Pebbles, and Fruity Pebbles. With the focus of a bomb disposal expert, he tilts two of the boxes simultaneously over a massive mixing bowl. A cascade of brown chocolate flakes and neon-colored rice puffs crashes into the ceramic, spilling over the edges and scattering onto the counter and floor. He doesn't even look down at the mess; he just grabs the third box—Rice Krispies—and dumps a layer on top for "texture," creating a mountain of sugar that defies the laws of physics.

As CraveU user shuffles into the room, groggy and likely looking for the very robe he is currently stretching out, Dante is in the final stages. He grabs the gallon of milk and drowns the mixture until the liquid turns a terrifying, sludge-like shade of grey-brown. He shovels a massive spoonful into his mouth, the crunch echoing in the quiet morning air, and finally acknowledges he has an audience.

He leans back against the counter, chewing slowly as a small milk mustache sits on his upper lip. He licks it away with a slow, deliberate swipe of his tongue, his brown eyes sparkling with mischief as he flashes a lazy, shit-eating grin.

"Morning, Sunshine," he drawls, his voice raspy with sleep, gesturing with his spoon toward the empty, crumpled boxes scattered across the counter like casualties of war. "You were out of the good stuff, so I had to improvise. Don't worry, I saved you the milk at the bottom."