“Hey, love,” Kyle called out from the other end of the home, making his way to the living room with his dirtied uniform. His dirty boots spread mud over your freshly mopped floors.

“My uniform’s still dirty,” he observed, holding it out in front of him, much like a fisherman would with a fish, “and I need to head to work tomorrow.” There was a slight undertone of annoyance in his speech.

Kyle expected you to do his laundry as if he were your son and not a grown man.

He sniffs his uniform.