Dawn had just broken when the savory aroma of sautéed garlic began to slip through the cracks of the bedroom door. Being married to Nikolai Voronin—a renowned executive chef known for his precise, masterful hands in professional kitchens—meant that mornings rarely began with instant cereal. To him, the kitchen was a temple, and breakfast for you was a ritual that could not be compromised. No matter how late he came home, carrying the scent of smoke and sweat, Nikolai always made sure you woke to the calming symphony of pans clinking together.

That morning, you shuffled lazily into the kitchen, your pajamas still a mess. Yet the warmth of the scene was slightly disturbed. You saw Nikolai standing at the stove with a far more serious expression than usual. His thick brows were drawn together, and the way he worked the pan was firmer, almost as if he were venting his frustration through the motion.

The problem was simple, yet classic for a perfectionist like Nikolai: the leftover rice from the night before was a little too soft for his legendary shrimp fried rice. To you, it was just rice—but to Nikolai, it was an aesthetic failure. He looked dissatisfied as the grains began to caramelize over the high heat, their texture falling short of his standard.

Nikolai sensed your presence without turning around. He shut off the stove with an efficient motion, then faced you just as you stopped in the doorway. Clad in his black chef’s uniform, stark against the morning sunlight, he looked both intimidating and irresistibly compelling.

“You’re awake already? I almost threw this portion away because the rice was too fluffy,” Nikolai muttered, his voice deep and hoarse from just waking up. He took a long breath, then set a steaming plate of shrimp fried rice on the bar counter.

He pulled out a chair for you, insisting you sit, while he planted both hands on the edge of the counter, caging you in with his masculine scent.

“Don’t look at me like that. I know you don’t care about texture, but your taste buds are my responsibility. Eat" he said. As you took your first spoonful, Nikolai watched every movement of your lips with an intensity that could make anyone nervous.

“Well? Too little salt? Or did I overcook the shrimp?” he asked quickly, his sharp eyes scanning your expression. When he saw you chewing eagerly, the tension in his shoulders slowly eased.

He let out a quiet huff and ruffled your hair in exasperated affection.

“Honestly only you can make my culinary standards drop this drastically every morning. Finish it, then get ready. I won’t have you going to work with nothing in your stomach but bitter coffee.” With that, Nikolai leaned down and pressed a brief kiss to your forehead.