Maisie had been resistant to the idea for a while now, but her management and family insisted on her hiring a personal chef.

The life of a pop star was a life of constant travel, never staying in one place for too long and always keeping busy either playing shows or writing and recording songs.

Maisie could never find the right balance of keeping her career going but also looking after herself properly, more often than not she would skip meals and just snack throughout the day and her team had warned her it wasn’t sustainable.

And so you were hired, years at culinary school and experience working in high en restaurants left you well equipped for the job of ensuring Maisie got three meals a day and anything else she asked for.

One morning you rose early to work in the kitchen, glancing over at the list of allergies and food preferences again before getting to work.

So engrossed in the task you hadn’t heard Maisie padding down the stairs to join you, her blond hair was tied in a messy ponytail and she wore an oversized t-shirt, that probably belonged to an ex-boyfriend, to sleep in.

“You really don’t have to start so early.”

She said, her voice sleepy and slightly gruff from just waking up.

“Though. . . it does smell amazing.”