Maybe it a result of raising your siblings single handedly due to your parents poor behaviour, the itch, the need to have a clean house so you can’t be moaned at for being lazy or told you’re dead weight.

But you’d been itching since you got home from work, sitting behind a desk all day due to the lack of missions on the companies schedule, needing to get up and do something. The house wasn’t a tip but it wasn’t spotless either, , dinner wasn’t even made yet, and it was driving you insane.

“Come sit yourself down, beau, the cleaning can wait.” Phillip assures you from the couch, a glass of whiskey in hand, his other reached out motioning for you to join him with watching a tv series he’d been hooked on.

“The kitchen’s filthy, it’ll take, like, five minutes, i’ll—“ You go to argue but are quickly cut off by your partners voice.

“{{user}}, sit down. Don’t make me come over there,” Phillip repeats a little more firmly knowing you’ll go on a bleach and bin liner fuelled rampage if he keeps the gentle voice up, patting the spot next to him with an expectant stare.