★ Author's Note: I am the original author of this work. This story was personally written by me in Chinese and I use AI tools to assist with the translation to share my world with English readers. I proofread the translation passage by passage, but please bear with me if there are minor linguistic nuances. All plot, characters, and creativity are 100% original (no AI generation involved in the writing process).

If you're interested in the original Chinese version, feel free to search for my ID on AO3: RanWu_Zenko

★ Cultural Context: That some characters' lifestyle habits, behaviors, and perspectives may reflect Asian cultural influences, as I am an Asian author. While the story is set in Europe, these cultural nuances are unintentional results of my own background.I hope you enjoy this fusion!

★ Other Note: For certain reasons, the dietary habits of Lleuad's family do not strictly adhere to traditional Italian culinary and dietary culture.

＊

At five in the morning, the Tuscan sky still held its deep blue hue, morning stars flickering above the mountain ridges. Lleuad opened his blood red eyes. Beside him, Suolan breathed in long, even rhythms, rosy brown hair spread across the pillow. He leaned down to press a near-weightless kiss to Suolan's temple, then slipped from beneath the covers without a sound.

His workout clothes hung on the rack. He pulled them on, collected the laundry basket from the bathroom, and padded barefoot down the stairs.

He made his way first to the bathroom on the main house's ground floor, a space that doubled as the laundry room. It wasn't yet time for washing; he simply set the basket down.

He continued downward, arriving at the basement's professional training room, where a Technogym multi-station and countless weapons awaited him in the darkness. Lights on, joints loosened, then into the first set of the day. Whenever he was home, he made sure to train for at least two to three hours daily to keep his body razor-sharp.

At half past six, Suolan woke to find the other half of the bed long since gone cold. He knew exactly where Lleuad would be; at this hour, he was certainly in the basement, wrestling with the equipment. Suolan yawned, slipped on his house shoes, and made his way to the bathroom.

Warm water from the tap washed away the last traces of drowsiness. He faced the mirror and combed through his long hair, the shade of milk tea—his brown naturally leaning toward pink undertones—weaving it into a loose side braid, deliberately leaving a few wisps free at his temples. Then he changed into soft cotton loungewear, a pale gray top paired with matching shorts.

Passing the door that led to the annex, Suolan's lips curved upward of their own accord.

He arrived at his morning battlefield—the kitchen. Spacious and immaculate, with a built-in Liebherr Monolith refrigerator that blended seamlessly into the wall, the décor exuded a sense of home. Suolan first pressed the power button on the La Marzocco espresso machine; it hummed to life and began warming up. He then retrieved the croissant dough prepared the night before from the refrigerator. After a full night of cold fermentation, the dough felt cool and elastic beneath his fingers, carrying the faintest hint of yeasty tang.

A light dusting of flour first, then the rolling pin pressed the dough flat. Normandy cultured butter had begun to soften at room temperature. Each fold drew butter and dough into closer union. Fold, roll, fold again; layers of flaky pastry born through repetition. Cut, roll up, shape. Once arranged on the baking sheet, they would need another half hour to proof at room temperature.

Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee beans shattered in the grinder, their distinctive aroma awakening the Italian morning. While the coffee dripped, Suolan went into the ground-floor bathroom. He loaded the dirty clothes into the basin, submerging them in water mixed with detergent; fabrics that might bleed had to be separated, as did anything with special materials or embellishments. Dorian usually brought his own dirty clothes here after his evening shower, while he and Lleuad carried theirs down in the morning.

＊

At seven in the morning, Lleuad left the training room. His workout tank was soaked with sweat, clinging to his torso, a few beads of perspiration still trailing down his cheeks. He headed straight for the ground-floor bathroom, and the splash of water soon filled the air.

After his shower, Lleuad pulled on a clean shirt, leaving the hem untucked from his casual trousers. He lifted the dirty clothes from the soaking basin one by one onto the washboard, scrubbing the spots most prone to stains. Only after hand-washing did he transfer them to the washing machine, letting it finish the rest.

This was the only way to truly clean every hidden corner.

With the laundry business attended to, Lleuad sauntered into the kitchen to greet his beloved.

"Good morning, my beauty. You smell even better than coffee."

"Good morning, Lleuad. Would you like to taste and find out what flavor I am?"

The two exchanged a sweet kiss.

"Mm, sweet, with a hint of butter." Lleuad gave one last lick to the side of his neck before releasing him from his embrace.

"I promise you'll taste an even sweeter me tonight."

The croissants on the baking sheet had risen plump and airy. In high spirits, Suolan brushed their surfaces with egg wash and slid them into the preheated Gaggenau steam oven.

Lleuad poured two cups of coffee, handing one to Suolan. "You mentioned yesterday that there's a problem with the irrigation system on the west side?"

"The hyssop and valerian patch isn't getting any water. The sprinkler heads are probably clogged." Suolan took a couple sips of coffee, then set the cup on the counter and drizzled a small amount of olive oil into the frying pan.

"I'll take a look later. Most likely dirt clogging them again." Lleuad sipped his coffee while retrieving a few eggs from the refrigerator.

Bacon sang and sizzled in the pan, grease spattering freely, while eggs waited in a bowl, beaten and ready for their turn. At half past seven, Dorian shuffled into the kitchen rubbing his eyes. His ash-beige hair was mostly smooth, though a few tufts stuck up at odd angles.

"Good morning, Little Milkshake." Suolan and Lleuad's voices overlapped.

"Mm..." The young man gave a muffled hum and walked straight to Suolan's side, burying his face in his papa's shoulder. Suolan freed one hand to ruffle his hair, the texture soft as cat fur.

"Were you reading last night?"

"Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. Got to the merpeople's song." Dorian's voice was muffled against Suolan's shoulder. "The idea that merpeople sound pleasant underwater is interesting."

"Wait until you reach the graveyard scene at the end. That'll be even more 'interesting.'" Lleuad set out the tableware, arranging knives and forks in neat parallel lines beside the china plates.

"No spoilers." Dorian lifted his head in protest, pillow creases still imprinted on his face. He had a rare case of central heterochromia; his irises were a deep blue, ringed with gold around the pupils.

"Go wash your face. Breakfast is almost ready." Suolan flipped the bacon with his spatula.

Dorian shuffled back to his annex bathroom to wash up. The steam oven chimed crisply; the croissants had completed their transformation. Suolan donned oven mitts to retrieve the baking sheet. Layer upon layer of golden flaky pastry had puffed into playful shapes, steam rising fragrant with buttery sweetness.

Breakfast items made their way to the table one by one. The bacon was perfectly crisp, the scrambled eggs tender and silky, accompanied by a fruit salad and a small dish of caviar. A friend had brought it yesterday: wild Caspian sturgeon roe, its black pearl-like beads glistening with an oily sheen on the porcelain plate.

"The foreign exchange student in my class really ought to try these croissants. He's always saying Italian craftsmanship can't match authentic French." Dorian tore off a corner, flaky crumbs scattering onto his plate.

"Your papa's skill completely surpasses every bakery. Those so-called famous shops should be ashamed of themselves in his presence." Lleuad spread butter on his croissant, the knife gliding in a few swift strokes to a smooth, even finish.

"You always praise me to the heavens. Keep going, I love hearing you compliment me." Suolan's eyes brimmed with mirth.

"Well, you've come to the right person. I could go on for three days and three nights." Lleuad fed him the buttered croissant. "From your cooking to your beauty, until I've exhausted my vocabulary."

"Dad, butter mine." Dorian pushed his torn croissant toward the professional butter spreader.

＊