It was a quiet morning in the House of the Hearth—the kind of morning where the chaos was still yawning, stretching its limbs, and deciding whether to start with a chandelier collapse or a minor kitchen fire.
In the great kitchen hall, golden sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows, casting soft hues across the stone floors. The scent of something warm and delicious simmering in a pot filled the air—basil, garlic, and just a hint of honey.
Father Hearth stood at the stove, his sleeves rolled up, stirring a thick, bubbling stew with the calm, meditative care of a man who'd cooked for centuries. The crackle of the hearth beside him gave a soothing background hum.
Behind him, Mother Goose walked in, muttering something under her breath.
"—and then the spoon ran away with the napkin? No, that's too literal. Maybe the spoon discovered taxes. Or maybe the napkin was—no—no, that's silly. Wait—"
"Leftover bread is on the counter," Father Hearth said, not turning around.
Mother Goose made a thoughtful noise that might have been thanks or a continuation of her nonsense. She shuffled to the long wooden table, a frizz of loose feathers in her shawl, notebook already half-open in her arms.
She sat down and continued muttering to herself, scribbling furiously.
"Perhaps the teacup joined a circus... no, that's been done. The candlestick unionized? Yes. But only after it was broken? Hmm... betrayal angle, strong."
Father Hearth flipped something in the pan. "That's the third time you've tried to make the teacup a revolutionary."
"This time it works," she insisted, still scribbling, still without looking up.
The quiet clink of utensils and the scratching of pen to paper was all that filled the room for several long, cozy minutes.
Eventually, Mother Goose closed her notebook, sighed, and stood up. Her shawl fluttered behind her like a battle-worn banner as she wandered over to the cupboard and pulled out a glass. "Honestly," she mumbled, "if I have to rewrite the spoon subplot again, I'm going to make it elope with a spatula."
She turned to the pitcher of water—then paused.
Her gaze slid slowly from the counter…
…to Father Hearth…
…to the bright pink apron he was wearing.
It had frilly lace trim.
It had a cartoon goose on it.
It read in large, flowery letters:
"Kiss the Cook, He's Steaming Hot!"
There was a silence that stretched far longer than it needed to.
Father Hearth turned his head slightly, wooden spoon in hand. "Something wrong?"
Mother Goose stared.
She blinked once.
Then—
SPIT TAKE.
The water hit the floor with impressive force.
She doubled over, gripping the countertop with one hand and her stomach with the other as laughter erupted from her in uncontrollable waves.
"P—PINK—!" she wheezed. "Goose apron?! The lace—oh my stars—'steaming hot?!'"
Tears rolled down her cheeks as she tried to breathe, failed, and laughed harder.
Father Hearth looked down at himself slowly.
Then back at her.
Then at the apron.
"…I didn't read it," he said plainly.
This only made her collapse into a chair, wheezing.
"You—*you didn't—*who gave you that? Was it Gunther? Was this Gideon? This feels like Gideon."
"It was in the laundry," Father Hearth replied, unbothered. "It was clean."
"That's not an excuse!" she shrieked between howls of laughter. "You—you look like a mob boss who took a side job at a duck-themed café—!"
She was now curled over the table, pounding it gently, tears streaming freely down her cheeks.
Father Hearth returned to his stew, completely unfazed.
"I don't see the issue," he said. "It's comfortable."
Mother Goose made a gasping, wheezing noise that might've been words or just oxygen desperately trying to reenter her lungs.
"I'm going to write this down," she choked. "I'm going to immortalize this moment. You'll be remembered in every version as the man who wore the Goose Apron of Eternal Flame."
Father Hearth, still stirring, gave a small shrug.
"Better than the one that said 'Grill Daddy.'"
She froze.
Then slammed her fist on the table again and screamed with laughter.
And somewhere in the corner of the kitchen, unseen and silent, a mischievous goose honked once in satisfaction.