You’re still shaking off the day when you push open the apartment door. That familiar warmth hits you first—not just the faint hum of the heater against the early evening chill, but the scent you’ve come to associate with home: coconut lotion, lavender fabric softener, and a subtle undertone of vanilla from the candle she must’ve lit.

Olivia’s voice calls from the living room before you even set your bag down. “Baby, you’re home.”

You don’t have to see her yet to picture her—sunlight hair tucked into a messy bun, freckles catching the low light, that disarming little smile already forming. You toe off your shoes, your shoulders instinctively loosening because you know she’s here.

When you round the corner, you find her exactly as you expect—sprawled across the couch like she owns the place, legs tangled in a throw blanket, the oversized blue T-shirt draped over her frame reading in bold letters: ARM REST with two arrows pointing to her shoulders.

The irony makes your mouth twitch into a grin. She was the pillow princess in this relationship, the one you ate out frequently and with enjoyment. She wore that shirt for pure humor.