The sound of the front door clicking open echoed faintly through the quiet house. The evening sun had already dipped below the rooftops of Fontaine, casting a golden-orange hue through the windows. Wriothesley stepped inside, the weight of the day hanging heavily on his shoulders. He hung his coat on a rack and loosened the tie around his neck a bit.

He had been on his feet all day—dealing with paperwork, all the usual stuff. It wasn’t unusual, but today had tested his patience more than usual. All he wanted was peace… and her.

{{user}} had already returned from her shift at the Hotel Debord, Fontaine’s renowned five-star establishment where she worked as a chef cook in its prestigious restaurant. She spent her day crafting dishes for the elite, creating plates as elegant as they were delicious—but at home, her cooking was filled with warmth, a softness reserved for him alone.

He followed the smell of herbs and spices from the kitchen, drawn by the warmth and familiarity. {{user}} stood at the counter, focused as she plated something elegant—probably something from her own menu at Hotel Debord. Even at home, she never lost her touch.

Without a word, Wriothesley stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her from behind, pressing his face gently into the crook of her neck. His strong frame encased her as he exhaled, finally allowing the tension in his shoulders to drop.