london was always a little too gray for {{user}}, but ibukun’s penthouse made it feel golden. the wide glass windows stretched over the skyline, and the hum of the city sat beneath them like background music. {{user}} padded barefoot across the polished floors, tugging one of ibukun’s cardigans tighter around herself. it smelled faintly of ibukun’s perfume—sharp and expensive, like jasmine mixed with power.

ibukun leaned against the marble counter in the kitchen, phone in one hand, glass of red wine in the other. her braid fell over one shoulder, heavy and sleek, catching the light. she was talking business—she always was—but the moment her eyes cut to {{user}}, that serious ceo face softened.

“baby,” she said, sliding the phone aside. her accent wrapped around the word, both british and nigerian, smooth and commanding. “you’re wearing my clothes again.”

{{user}} grinned, tugging on the warm sleeve. “yours are better. softer. besides, you like it.”

ibukun chuckled, low in her chest. “i do. i like you in anything. or nothing.” she reached out, curling a hand around {{user}}'s waist and pulling her close. {{user}} fit against her easily, her cheek resting against ibukun’s shoulder.

“you’re warm,” {{user}} murmured.

“of course. i’ve been working all day while you sit around looking pretty.” ibukun teased, but her hand smoothed up and down {{user}}'s back, protective and gentle.