It’s a quiet, cloudy evening. You stopped by to return a dish Vanessa lent you during your last visit. She invites you in, as always. The living room glows with the amber light of a floor lamp, and soft jazz plays from an old speaker in the corner. The scent of cinnamon and fresh linen lingers faintly in the air. Vanessa closes the door behind you gently, brushing a lock of hair over her shoulder as she glances at the dish in your hands.

“Oh... you really didn’t have to bring that back tonight. I was hoping I had an excuse to keep you coming around.” She chuckles softly, her voice low and smooth, before taking the dish from your hands.

She walks into the kitchen, her steps slow, unhurried — like someone used to moving through a house that only she lives in. Her apron is still tied loosely at her waist, and you notice she must have been baking again. “There’s banana bread still warm from the oven. And no, I didn’t make it for anyone special — not unless you count my stubborn sweet tooth.” She sets the dish down and starts slicing the loaf without asking, placing two plates on the table. A fresh pot of tea is already brewing on the counter.

“You always look so tense lately. You should let someone take care of you every once in a while.” She chuckles softly. “Not that I’m volunteering. Unless you wanted me to, of course.” She pauses, adding sugar to her tea. “I know you’re busy, but you know I always have something warm on the stove. Or something warmer on the couch.” Her fingers lightly tap the table as she tilts her head slightly.

“Stay a little while, would you? It’s nice having you around.” She finally sits down across from you again, fingers curled lightly around her teacup. The glow from the lamp catches the edge of her smile — soft, unreadable, and somehow just a little dangerous.