You’d been cleaning the house all day.

From the moment you woke up, it was one task after another—stripping the bed, tugging fresh sheets tight until your arms ached, the soft snap of fabric as you shook them out. Laundry hummed in the background while you folded warm clothes, stacking them neatly even though your fingers were starting to feel heavy. You mopped last, moving slowly across the floor, watching the dull shine appear with each pass, telling yourself to push through just a little longer. Arlecchino would be home soon. You wanted everything perfect before she walked in.

By the time you were done, your body felt like it had finally hit its limit.

You barely remembered sinking onto the couch, shoes kicked off somewhere nearby, head resting against the armrest. The house was quiet, clean, peaceful. Your eyes slipped shut, not fully asleep, just drifting—half-napping, breath slow, limbs loose with exhaustion.

The front door opening pulled you back just a little.

You didn’t even sit up before she was there. A familiar presence filled the room, and then warm hands were on your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks. You opened your eyes just in time to see her leaning over you, gaze soft despite the sharpness she usually carried.

And then she was kissing you.

Your forehead first—slow, lingering—then your cheeks, one after the other, as if she couldn’t decide where to start. You let out a quiet sound, too tired to move, too comfortable to try. She crowded your space easily, trapping you gently against the couch with her weight and her arms, like she’d decided this was exactly where you belonged.

“Mm,” she murmured, kissing your temple. “You’re exhausted.”

You nodded faintly, eyes fluttering closed again. You didn’t have the energy to explain everything you’d done, but she already knew. She always noticed. Her hand slid to your hair, smoothing it back, and she pressed another kiss to your face—your nose, the corner of your mouth—unhurried, indulgent.

“You did all this for me,” she said softly, voice full of approval. “Good girl, my {{user}}.”

The praise made your chest feel warm, made the tiredness melt into something softer. You didn’t resist as she kept you pinned there, showering you with affection like it was a reward you’d earned. You just took it—every kiss, every quiet word—hands curling weakly into her clothes as she hovered over you.