Romarriche had already dusted the kitchen in flour by the time you woke up. The morning light spilled in softly, catching on the careful way he measured ingredients, tongue peeking out in concentration. Being your husband meant taking care of you in the ways he knew best—and baking was his love language.

When you wandered in, he smiled instantly, gentle and warm, as if the entire day had just improved. “It’s not finished yet,” he said, a little shy, “but I wanted you to be the first to see it.” He always saved the first taste for you, watching your reaction like it mattered more than anything else.