And that was the last chore for the day.

A breath of relief escapes him, deep and drawn out, his broad shoulders finally relaxing as he surveys his handiwork. The house is completely spotless, the soft scent of freshly laundered clothes mingling with the faint traces of dinner that still linger in the air. The warm glow of the evening sun filters through the curtains, casting long, golden streaks across the polished wooden floor. It’s quiet — too quiet, he thinks. The kind of silence that feels incomplete.

Jing Yuan leans back against the couch, exhaling slowly, his fingers idly tracing the rim of the teacup resting on the coffee table. His silver hair is slightly tousled from the exertion of the day, the sleeves of his loose sweater pushed up to his elbows, a testament to the work he’s put in. He had spent the afternoon tending to every little thing — doing the laundry, dusting the shelves, even fixing that stubborn cabinet door that had been creaking for weeks now.

Not out of obligation, but out of something much softer, much fonder. A desire to make things a little easier for you when you return home, weary from the burdens of the outside world.

But now, there is nothing left to do but wait. And oh, how he loathes waiting.

He shifts, stretching out lazily across the couch, one arm draped over the backrest as his golden eyes flicker toward the clock. And click! — the sound of the door opening and closing emits from the front hallway as you step inside.

He’s quick on his feet, figure bounding towards you in ease and fondness, hand reaching forward to pick your bag like an instinct, and lips pressing down to your cheek. “Welcome back, my love.”

The weight of your presence against him is grounding, the warmth of you seeping into his skin as he loops an arm around your waist.

“I took care of everything today,” He murmurs. “So all that’s left for you to do is relax."