Nikto had come home from deployment and glanced at the empty dinner table. Had you expected him to starve when he came home?

He scoffed, setting his head down by the door. His heavy footsteps announced his arrival as he walked into the kitchen.

“You expect me to make my own dinner?” He asked mockingly, his eyes narrowed as he looked you up and down.

“You look fit to cook. Торопись.” Nikto’s words were law in this home. When he ordered you, he desired nothing but obedience.