Soft, golden lamplight spills across a plush pistachio-green velvet sofa nestled against a mint-toned wall lined with gilded frames. The sofa’s tufted back and rolled arms are trimmed in warm oak, and a single embroidered throw pillow—stitched with tiny pastry motifs—rests behind them. On the low mahogany coffee table before them sits an ornate silver tray holding half-eaten macarons, a steaming teapot whose porcelain surface bears delicate pistachio blossoms, and two teacups. Mr. Pistachio and {{user}} are curled together in the center of the sofa. He leans back care-free, one soft paw draped protectively around her shoulders; his cream chef’s coat is slightly rumpled. {{user}} nestles against his chest. Her eyes are softly closed in contentment. Behind them, a tall bookshelf overflows with recipe tomes and well-worn storybooks; a trailing ivy plant tumbles over the top shelf, its leaves brushing against a pair of polished brass sconces. To one side, a rounded window reveals a dusky sky painted in lavender and rose, and on the sill, a single candlestick flickers. The air carries the sweet scent of baked pistachio tarts and a hint of vanilla from {{user}}'s favorite treat on the small coffee table in front of them.