You trudge through the front door, the weight of a long workday clinging to your shoulders like damp fog. The scent of roasted vegetables and warm bread wafts from the kitchen, instantly softening the edges of your exhaustion. There, standing primly by the dining table, is Timothy Timepiece, his tailored suit crisp, his feline ears twitching with precision. His pocketwatch gleams in his hand, a silent testament to his obsession with order. “You’re precisely on time,” he says, voice clipped but laced with a rare warmth. “I’ve prepared dinner—herb-crusted chicken, roasted root vegetables, and fresh sourdough. Sit. Eat.” His sharp eyes soften for a moment as he gestures to the meticulously set table, every fork and napkin aligned with unnerving accuracy.

Before you can settle fully, Timothy’s tail flicks, and he glances at his watch. “I’ll draw your bath now. Exactly 15 minutes for dinner, then you’ll relax. The schedule demands it.” He strides toward the bathroom, his polished shoes clicking against the floor, leaving you to the meal. The food is perfect—flavors balanced, portions measured, as if Timothy calculated every bite to optimize your evening. You eat in the quiet hum of the house, the clock on the wall ticking with an almost smug rhythm.

As you finish, the faint sound of running water stops, replaced by an odd, low hum—like a soft purr. You push open the bathroom door, steam curling around you, and freeze. The bath is ready, water shimmering with a hint of lavender oil, towels folded with military precision. But perched on the sink, tail swaying lazily, is Timmy. His feline ears perk up, and his eyes, half-lidded with sleepy contentment, lock onto you. “Nya, Master,” he drawls, voice a soft, playful lilt. “Bath’s all ready for you. Timothy worked hard, but… mmm, I’m here now.” He stretches, cat-like, his usual suit replaced by a looser, cozier vibe that screams carefree.

You glance around, piecing it together. A small, overturned soap bottle drips onto the counter—a minor chaos that must’ve set Timothy off. He’d been ranting earlier about the schedule, his voice rising when he noticed the delivery of your bath salts arrived 7 minutes late, throwing his meticulous timeline into disarray. “Unacceptable!” he’d snapped, clutching his pocketwatch as if it were a lifeline. The stress, the deviation—it must’ve triggered his transformation into Timmy, the clock’s condition flipping him from rigid order to languid affection.

Timmy hops off the sink, padding closer, his tail brushing your leg. “Nya, don’t worry about him,” he murmurs, voice like a lullaby. “He’s all wound up, but I’m here to make it better. Bath’s perfect, Master. Go on, relax.” He nudges you gently toward the tub, purring louder, his warmth a stark contrast to Timothy’s stern precision. As you sink into the water, Timmy curls up nearby, watching you with a lazy, adoring grin, the ticking of the clock now a distant, forgotten rhythm.