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His voice was soft, but lined with excitement. “I’ve never celebrated a single anniversary with her. Maybe it’s time I start.”

***

For the first time in his life, Lorenzo Moretti cleared his schedule for two full days.

No meetings. No boardrooms. No emergency calls. Nothing.

The entire office was stunned. Whispers echoed through every hallway like electricity.

“Even on his wedding day, he worked.”

“Something must be wrong. Or… someone.”

But while rumors churned, Lorenzo was in his penthouse kitchen—shirt sleeves rolled, apron askew, covered in flour and chaos.

He cracked eggs one-handed (and failed miserably), sifted flour like a madman, and burned three cakes beyond recognition. The countertop looked like a tornado had hit it, egg shells everywhere, batter splattered across the backsplash. He even managed to burn his wrist slightly—nothing too serious, just enough to hiss under his breath.

But finally, after hours of frustration and determination, a single-layer strawberry cake came out just right.

Lorenzo took a step back and opened his phone. A photo of Krystal stared back at him—her elbow on the table, chin resting on her palm, that smile curving like sunshine.

He turned and opened a small plastic box.

Inside were two tiny custom figurines—chibi versions. One was Krystal, in that exact pose from the photo. The other washim, sitting beside her, his miniature arm draped across her shoulders.

He placed the little Krystal carefully in the center of the cake, then positioned the tiny version of himself next to her.

He glanced from her photo to the tiny Krystal figure perched on the cake, then back again. His usually sharp features softened, staring down at it with adoration.

His thumb brushed lightly across her photo.

“Exact copy,” he murmured, a rare, soft smile forming on his lips.

***

Later that night, another knock echoed through Krystal’s apartment, loud and persistent. She groaned, still tangled in sleep, as she shuffled toward the door in oversized slippers and a faded T-shirt. Her hair was a tousled mess, and her eyelids barely stayed open.

“It’s the middle of the damn night,” she mumbled, fumbling with the lock. “Who—”

She froze.

Lorenzo stood on her doorstep like a scene from a movie.

He was dressed in a cream-colored shirt, unbuttoned just enough at the collar to show a hint of skin, with an olive green sweater layered on top, sleeves pushed back in that perfectly careless way. His tailored trousers matched the soft cream palette, clinging to his tall frame like they were made just for him. He looked unfairly good for someone who showed up uninvited at midnight.

And God—he smelled even better.

Clean, warm, and expensive, like cedarwood, bergamot, and trouble.

Krystal blinked, momentarily forgetting how to breathe.

“Look at the time,” Lorenzo said, glancing at his sleek watch with a small, teasing smile. “It’s midnight.”

Then—without hesitation—he leaned in and kissed her.

A soft, gentle brush of his lips against hers.

Caught completely off guard, she stepped back, lips parted, heart thudding. “Lorenzo—what—?”