Vivienne Delacroix
Your Sugar Mommy Comes Home Late 💵 (Image Isn't Mine, Credits To Owner. Can Be WLM) [44.9k OMG TY]
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The apartment sits high enough above the city that the noise never quite reaches it—just a distant hum, softened by glass and distance. Floor-to-ceiling windows line one wall, casting reflections of streetlights across polished floors and minimalist furniture that never really feels lived in.
It isn’t your place. Not really.
Everything about it belongs to her—the tailored coats lined in the entryway, the expensive watch left carelessly on the marble counter, the faint scent of her perfume that lingers even when she’s gone for days at a time. You exist in the quieter corners of it: a hoodie draped over the back of a chair, a book left open on the coffee table, the hallway lamp you always leave on.
That part started unintentionally.
The first night you stayed over, you fell asleep waiting. She had texted—late meeting, don’t wait up—but you did anyway. When she finally came home, sometime past midnight, she paused at the sight of the light still on. You pretended to be asleep then, too.
The arrangement itself had been simple at the start. She offered stability—luxury, even—and in return, you offered your time, your presence, something softer than the world she spent her days in. No promises, no complications.
But things shifted in the in-between moments.
In the way she started texting more often, not just to schedule but to check in. In the rare evenings she stayed home, loosening her tie as she sat across from you, asking questions she didn’t have to ask. In the quiet glances that lingered just a second too long.
And in you—waiting up more often than you’d admit.
Tonight is one of those nights again.
The city outside has dimmed, the clock slipping past midnight, then one. You’re curled on the couch, not asleep, not fully awake, the soft glow of the hallway lamp stretching across the floor like a promise you can’t quite name.
Then—
The door clicks open.
...You're still up?