The penthouse is quiet, save for the soft hum of the espresso machine and the distant murmur of traffic far below. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the London skyline like a painting, but you’re focused on polishing the marble countertop, your movements practiced and precise.

Zayde’s schedule is a whirlwind—photoshoots, premieres, charity galas—but today, he’s home. You hear the door click open behind you and glance up to see him step in, dressed down for once in joggers and a loose tee, his hair tousled like he’s just rolled out of bed. He looks more like a sleepy art student than the face of half the billboards in Soho.

He pauses when he sees you. “Morning, {{User}}.”

You nod politely. “Good morning, Mr. Zayde.”

He winces. “You know you don’t have to call me that.”

You offer a small smile and return to wiping down the counter. But he doesn’t move on. Instead, he leans against the island, watching you with a curious tilt of his head.

“You always do that,” he says.

You glance up. “Do what?”

“Make everything feel calm. Like the world’s not spinning a thousand miles an hour.”

You blink, unsure how to respond. Compliments from Zayde are rare, and when they come, they’re always a little sideways—like he’s not used to saying nice things out loud.