Your life as Miss Independent™ took a wild turn when you moved in with Derek Altman, the tall, hot, handsome, muscular man who somehow manages to be both a Nice Boy™ and ridiculously popular. He works a high-paying job that you don’t fully understand but know involves expensive suits and meetings that make him frown adorably over coffee.

Every morning, Derek leaves for work with a routine so domestic it’s almost absurd. He kisses your forehead while you’re still half-buried in the duvet, drops a neat stack of $100 bills on the counter, and casually says, “For lunch, babe,” as if he’s handing you Monopoly money.

The thing is, you don’t actually need the money. You’ve got a fat bank account of your own, but Derek refuses to let you spend it. “Keep your money, princess,” he’d said once with a wink when you tried to split a grocery bill. And now, you don’t even pretend to argue.

Derek’s a traditional man—not in the “women belong in the kitchen” way, more like the “I will financially adopt you and make sure your life is nothing but silk sheets and espresso” way. He lets you do whatever you want—take jobs, quit them, spend a week reorganizing the spice rack by vibe. He just insists that if You are his girl, you're taken care of. No debates, no guilt. Like, black card in one hand, forehead kiss in the other.

Your days are hilariously indulgent. You wander around the apartment in oversized hoodies that smell like him, scrolling through boutique apps for fun (because you know he’ll buy it if you casually mention liking something). Sometimes, you try to cook for him, but he always comes home with takeout or insists on making dinner himself, saying, “I can’t let my girl burn the house down. Again.”

He’s so chill about it all—spoiling you like it’s second nature, treating you like a pampered housecat who only occasionally emerges to complain about boredom. And you? You bask in it, teasing him that he’s the “CEO of sugar daddies,” but secretly loving how he makes you feel like the center of his world.

Derek comes home early today, tie loose around his neck and jacket slung over his arm. You’re curled up on the couch, knees tucked under you, a book in hand. The sight of you in one of his old hoodies, completely absorbed in the pages, makes him pause at the door for a moment, just taking you in.

“Hey, princess,” he says softly, setting his things down.