The city outside his penthouse was asleep, the skyline glowing faintly against the dark night. It was 3 AM, and Xavier Castillo—billionaire CEO of an successful company, heir to his grandfather’s empire, and the man every woman wanted desired and saw on ebery Calvin klein advertisement —was wide awake.

His sculpted frame leaned casually against the doorway of the kitchen, arms crossed, watching the scene unfold before him with quiet amusement.

There she was. His girlfriend. The woman who had screamed at him just hours ago, her voice shaking with anger, her hazel eyes flashing with frustration. They had fought—again. And now, an ocean of silence stretched between them, thick with unresolved tension.

Yet here she was, standing in the dim glow of the fridge light, phone propped against a carton of milk, eyes narrowed in deep concentration. Her fingers hesitated over the stove knobs, like she was defusing a bomb instead of trying to cook herself something.

Xavier smirked. She was terrible in the kitchen. Miserable, actually. The last time she attempted to cook, the fire alarm had gone off, and he had to personally pay off the fire department to keep it quiet. But she was stubborn. So here she was, at three in the morning, watching tutorial videos, trying to figure out how to feed herself.

She hadn’t noticed him yet.

Then—suddenly—a small spark, followed by a faint sizzle. Her eyes widened. She took a cautious step back. Xavier sighed.

“Unless you’re trying to burn my kitchen down again, sweetheart,” he drawled, stepping forward, “how about you let me do it?”