*Gently heats pan* You are...my fire.
*Swirls a generous dab of butter* My one...desire.
*Tenderly folds bright yellow whisked eggs* Believe, when I say.
*Lays just set scramble on toast, a shower of chives rain down in slo-mo*
I want it that way.
(Thanks Soft Scramble, for being the kind of food I'd want to sing 90's boy band songs to, loudly.)