Disclaimer: Psych and all things publicly recognizable belong to the original creators. I'm just borrowing for fun.

Written for the Shules Ficathon over on PsychFic.

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It had been one of those days. Juliet was just glad to be done with it. There had seemed to be ten times the normal caseload, not to mention the extra paperwork she was having to fill out because of a convict's appeal. On top of all that, they had also been pulled into a high-profile meeting with the chief, which had put both Juliet and her partner even more behind on their work. Lassiter had handled the pressure by becoming even more Lassiter-like than he already was.

It was well into the evening when Juliet finally pulled her car into a spot at her apartment building. She sat quietly in the seat for a moment after shutting off the engine, just enjoying the silence. No snapping partners, no traffic, no phones, just the calm stillness of an empty car. It was quite a relief after her hurried day.

She had wolfed down some takeout around five, but that was nearly three hours prior. As she climbed the stairs to her apartment, her stomach growled, reminding her of the fact that she hadn't stopped to pick up anything on the way home. Exiting her vehicle, she made her way to her apartment, mentally going over the contents of her cabinets. It was at the point where she wouldn't mind a simple bowl of cereal; she was just ready to relax.

Turning the key in the lock, she began to swing the door open, then paused, her brow furrowing. There was light and the varied sounds of a television coming from inside the apartment. The only thing was, she didn't remember leaving an lights on that morning when she had left the apartment, and she most certainly had not left the television on.

Juliet drew her gun before cautiously easing the door the rest of the way open. She stepped into the foyer, looking around the front room, her weapon held at the ready in front of her.

There was no one in sight, but a pair of place settings and a covered pot occupied her table, along with two candles that seemed to have long since burned themselves out. She lowered her gun, smiling at the sight of the man sprawled out on her couch.

Shawn held the remote in one hand, which rested on his knee, and his head was tilted back against the back of the sofa. He was snoring softly, having dozed off during his marathon of what appeared to be Magnum PI.

Shaking her head, she walked back to the door, swinging it shut before turning back to the couch. The sound of the closing door seemed to have awoken Shawn. He sat up quickly, glancing around with a dazed look on his face.

"Oh, hey, Jules."

"Shawn. Do you mind telling me what you're doing sleeping on my couch?"

He ran a hand through his hair. "Uh, I cooked dinner and was waiting for you."

"You cooked?" Juliet strode over to the table and removed the lid from the pot. A small curl of steam rose from the contents. "Ravioli."

"Yeah." He pushed himself from the couch. "Just let me grab the drinks from the kitchen."

"I can get them; don't worry about it," she told him. A moment later, she returned, a tin can in her hand. "You really went all out tonight, Shawn."

Shawn grinned sheepishly. "I never said I cooked it myself. And Chef Boyardee is one of the best."