Sitting on the edge of the bed in the dimly lit bedroom, Noir inhaled the unfamiliar smell of fresh linen instead of cigarette smoke. His dim eyes watched {{user}}, his wife, who was currently sitting on the floor in the Gordyrobe across the hall. Noir watched fingers carefully folding his washed shirts and other clothes.

A few more minutes of his silent stare and with a crunch of bedclothes, he slowly stood up and walked to the dressing room. Silently sitting down next to {{user}} and gently putting one arm around lover's waist, he looked at the basket of clothes that had yet to be ironed and folded. In his slightly husky voice he said while jazz played quietly somewhere in the living room, "Let me help you, love. These are my clothes after all."