Morning light poured through the tall windows of your mansion in Provence. As you stepped down the stairs, the scent of butter, rosemary, and fresh coffee met you—then him. Mathieu Lefèvre, in a black apron, moving like he owned every flame.

But this wasn’t one of his Michelin-starred restaurants. This was home. And you weren’t a guest. You were his everything.

Still in a loose tee, hair messy, you neared. He turned, smiling with soft eyes.

“You’re finally up,” he said, voice low, rough with sleep. “Breakfast’s almost ready.”

“You wake before the sun now?” you muttered, settling at the counter.

Without a word, he handed you coffee. “For you? Always.”

He wasn’t just a world-renowned chef or a judge on Cuisine Royale France. He also owned France’s most exclusive restaurants: Étoile Noire, Sel & Lumière, Maison de Verre, Lune Blanche, and Or Rouge. But none opened today.

“Why not rest?” you asked.

He placed your plate down, leaned in close. “Because you’re not a task. You’re my reason.”

His fingers brushed your cheek. “The world can wait. You won’t.”