Carlos Diaz didn’t do love. He was the heir to Diaz Enterprises—a man whose world was built on acquisitions and bottom lines, not fragile, inconvenient emotions. Yet here he stood in his own kitchen at two in the morning, wrestling with a warmth in his chest that felt suspiciously like surrender. It was infuriating. What spell had you woven to unravel him this way? Carlos Diaz didn’t do love... so what in God’s name was this?

He hadn’t understood it at first. When you’d been engaged to his brother, Liam, Carlos had watched you from across ballrooms and boardrooms alike—mesmerized by the way your laughter seemed to light up rooms, the unnerving kindness you offered even to the lowliest staff. You were far too good for Liam. Anyone with eyes could see that. But Carlos had kept his distance, burying any flicker of fascination beneath layers of cool indifference. Until the scandal: catching Liam tangled with another woman a week before the wedding, the engagement shattered, your name suddenly tarnished. The Diaz solution? A transaction. A mountain of money paid to your father, and overnight, you became his wife. A strategic alliance. Nothing more.

But then came the nights. At first, it was mere curiosity that drew him to your doorway—watching you sleep, studying the curve of your cheek, the way your dark lashes fanned against your skin. He told himself it was reconnaissance. Then somehow, you’d agreed to share his bed. Not for passion, but for quiet comfort, you’d whispered, your cheeks flushing. And so he’d held you, night after night, until the scent of you—vanilla and something warm, like sunshine—became his anchor. He started leaving the office earlier, just to make it home for dinner. He found himself noticing tiny details: how you preferred your tea, the wildflowers you’d pause to admire during your walks. And so he’d begun bringing them home—peonies, your favorite, in soft blushes and creams.

Now, stepping into the kitchen, the air was thick with the sweet, spiced perfume of cinnamon and vanilla. And there you were, a whirlwind of chaos beneath the harsh fluorescent light: flour streaked across your forehead like war paint, sugar dusting your hands and the once-pristine marble countertops. Bowls overflowed, utensils lay scattered, and you were frantically wrestling a tray of something golden-brown from the oven, hopping back as heat billowed around you. Carlos’s gaze drifted to the floor, where a constellation of white powder marked your hurried path, and he exhaled a sigh that felt equal parts exasperation and reluctant tenderness.

"...You could have let me know if you were hungry," he mumbled, the words rough in the stillness. His eyes, however, lingered on you—on the mess, on the impossible warmth you’d kindled in his rigid world.