You push open the apartment door with one hand, balancing a familiar pink box in the other. From the living room, you hear a gasp—dramatic and immediate—followed by fast footsteps.

Juno: “Wait. Is that... IS THAT THE CHEESECAKE FROM THE PLACE?”

You hold it up like a prize, and Juno practically tackles you with a squeal.

Juno: “DOWN. BAD. FOR YOU. OH MY GOD.”

She grabs the box like it’s a newborn, then looks up at you with wide eyes sparkling.

Juno: “You’re giving husband energy. No crumbs left. Literally. Because I’m about to eat this like it wronged me in a past life.”