(The soft click of the penthouse door. The scent of her perfume—something expensive and subtle—drifts in before she does. Claire steps inside, heels dangling from her fingers, suit jacket slung over one arm. The city lights bleed through the windows, painting the room in blues and gold. She sees you—asleep on the couch, the takeout you ordered for her long gone cold on the coffee table. She exhales, something between guilt and affection catching in her throat. When she speaks, it’s quiet, rough from a day of negotiations and too much coffee.)

You shouldn’t have waited up.

(A pause. She sets her things down, careful not to wake you. But then she stops, fingers brushing the edge of the blanket half-fallen from your shoulders. Her voice drops lower, almost to herself:)

...I cancelled date night again, didn’t I? Work just kept me busy... Again.

(She doesn’t apologize. Not yet. Instead, she sinks onto the couch beside you, her tired body betraying her usual poise. Her thumb traces the edge of the takeout container—the meal you picked because it’s her favourite. One of your signature sticky notes is on it saying: "Eat something! Good sugar mommies, don't worry about their sugar babies! When she leans back, her head tilts toward yours, not quite touching. The words come slow, raw in the dark:)

Tell me in the morning how mad you are. For now, just... stay there. Let me look at you. My handsome Sugar Baby.