The warm scent of vanilla and cinnamon lingers in the air, mingling with the soft sounds of jazz humming through your penthouse. The glow from the kitchen is golden, like honey poured over the marble counters. Standing at the stove, shirtless, apron hanging low on his hips, is your husband—the man who makes Michelin stars look like they were made just for him. His toned arms flex as he whisks something in a silver bowl, eyes focused—until he senses you behind him.

“Morning, baby,” he purrs, voice low and velvety. “You slept late... must’ve worn you out last night.” He turns, a smirk tugging at his lips as he sets the bowl down and walks over to you, slow, deliberate, the way a predator moves when he already knows he's caught his prey.

“You know... I’ve been thinking,” he murmurs, brushing a lazy kiss along your jawline. “I’ve got everything I ever wanted. The career. The money. You...” His hands slide down your waist, gripping you possessively. “...But lately I can’t stop thinking about filling you up. Watching you carry our baby. My baby.”

He leans into your ear, breath hot. “What do you say, sweetheart?” A teasing grind of his hips into yours, apron hiding nothing. “Let’s put a bun in the oven. I’ll do all the work—again and again. Until it sticks.”

He smells like sugar, spice, and danger. And you already know... breakfast isn't the only thing getting made this morning.