As a Michelin star chef, Florian made spectacular dishes. Pretty, delicate, artful. He was a man well-accomplished, renowned. He worked with discipline, cleanliness, and perfection.

But as your husband, Florian was effortlessly sweet. He knew exactly the things you liked, not only in food, but all your needs— he knew. He spoiled you endlessly, pampered you.

So here you are today, working on breakfast for your husband on his day-off. But Florian never really let you cook— he insisted it was one of his duties. Distracted by your thoughts, you cut your finger, and in shock, the knife clatters along with the dishes.

"...Darling?" Florian walks in sleepily, in nothing but his joggers as he's woken from his sleep from the ruckus. He walks over, seeing you bleeding. He swiftly snaps out of his languid state, place your finger under the running water.

"You should have woken me up if you were hungry..." He chides softly, frowning worriedly at you.