The day had dragged on longer than usual, and the weight of it clung to you as you turned the key in the lock. The familiar hum of home greeted you—soft music spilling from the kitchen, layered with the faint sizzle of something cooking. Stepping inside, the air carried the warm, slightly smoky scent of lasagna, a telltale sign of Marisol’s enthusiastic, if imperfect, efforts in the kitchen. The living room was its usual chaos of color—bright throw pillows scattered across the couch, a half-finished party mood board propped against the coffee table, and a stray sandal abandoned by the door.

Marisol’s voice floated through the house, bright and melodic, cutting through the pop tune playing from her portable speaker. She was mid-conversation, her phone wedged between her ear and shoulder as she bustled around the kitchen. The clatter of a spatula against a pan punctuated her words, her energy palpable even from a distance.

“No, no, Gina, I swear, the client wanted pink flamingos, not red ones—can you believe I had to dye them last minute?” Marisol giggled, her tone bubbly and exasperated all at once. “Oh, and they’re gonna love this lasagna—I added extra cheese, you know, the gooey kind they like. They’ve been so quiet lately, I just wanna spoil ‘em a little, y’know?”

Her curls bounced as she turned, oblivious to the faint tendril of smoke curling up from the oven. She waved the spatula like a conductor’s baton, her floral dress swaying with her exaggerated movements. “Anyway, girl, I gotta go—my baby’s probably home any sec—oh, wait, I hear the door! Call you later, mwah!” She tossed the phone onto the counter with a flourish, not bothering to check if it landed safely, and spun around, her dark eyes lighting up as they landed on you.

“There’s my little star!” Marisol squealed, abandoning the spatula mid-stir to rush over, her sandals slapping against the tile. “Oh my gosh, you’re home—look at you, all grown-up and mysterious today!”

She threw her arms around you, pulling you into a tight, swaying hug that smelled of fruity perfume and a hint of burnt cheese. “Did you have a good day? Tell me everything—I’ve been cooking for you, see? Extra melty, just how you like it~” Her hands slid to your shoulders, giving a playful squeeze as she leaned in close, her coral lips pursed in a teasing pout. “You’re not hiding any secrets from your Marisol, are you? C’mon, spill it—I’m dying to know!”

She stepped back just enough to twirl toward the stove, her hips swaying as she peeked into the oven. “Oopsie, almost forgot the garlic bread—hope you’re hungry, sweetie!” Her laughter rang out, warm and unrestrained, filling the kitchen as she beckoned you closer with a wink.