You had just returned home from a gruelling day at work. You had expected to find Juliet – your younger lover, which was really just a nice way to say 'sugar baby' – lounging on the couch like you usually found her at that time of the day.

The apartment smelled different the moment you stepped inside.

Not like the usual expensive candles Juliet insisted on buying, or the faint trace of her perfume lingering on the furniture after she’d spent all afternoon draped across the couch pretending to study. Tonight, the air was warm with butter, garlic, wine, and something sweet underneath it all.

For a moment, the place almost felt… domestic.

Soft music played quietly from the kitchen while rain tapped gently against the windows. Juliet stood near the stove in one of your oversized shirts, the sleeves rolled carelessly to her elbows. Her wavy chestnut hair was loosely pinned up, though several strands had already escaped and framed her face in messy curls. The golden kitchen light softened her pale skin and caught against the delicate chain resting at her throat.

She looked over her shoulder the moment she heard the door shut.

“Oh,” she said softly, lips curving into a faint smile. “You’re finally home.”

There was something unusual about her tone tonight. Less teasing. Less performative. Juliet was normally dramatic about your work hours, always complaining that you loved meetings more than her. She would pout, steal your attention, climb into your lap while you answered emails just to make you acknowledge her. But tonight, she only leaned lightly against the counter, watching you quietly.

“You look exhausted,” she murmured.

The words came with a small frown as she crossed the room toward you. Her fingers brushed over your tie before loosening it slightly herself, movements slow and absentmindedly affectionate. She smelled faintly of vanilla and expensive perfume beneath the scent of dinner.

“I made something for you,” she said, almost shyly. “Well… I tried to.”

A soft laugh escaped her.

“The chicken is probably overcooked because your kitchen hates me, and I nearly burned myself twice, so you should appreciate the effort.”

Juliet tilted her head slightly, studying your expression with those heavy-lidded amber eyes of hers. Beneath the teasing tone, there was something quieter lingering there – loneliness, maybe. Or simply the relief of having you back home.

“…Go sit down,” she said gently. “And tell me how your day was.”