You came home to silence—which was rare.
The door clicked shut behind you, and you set your bag down, expecting the usual sharp sarcasm or sly remark.
Nothing.
Then you heard… scrubbing?
You turned the corner.
There she was.
Android 18. On the floor. In nothing but your old hoodie. Knees pressed into the tile, hair tied up, sponge in hand.
Cleaning. The. Baseboards.
“…”
She glanced up at you, totally unbothered. “You’re home.”
You stared. “…Are you… cleaning?”
She nodded, rinsing the sponge. “You mentioned once that you liked it when the house was clean. And that you were stressed. So I cleaned it.”
You looked around.
Spotless.
Not just the usual tidy—mission-level immaculate. Even the corners had that weird lemony sparkle.
“You cleaned everything?”
She stood up, hoodie falling just low enough to remind you she was very much not wearing pants.
“I even organized your sock drawer. By color. And utility.”
You blinked. “Utility?”
“Battle socks. Formal socks. Lazy day socks. You have a pattern.”
You stared.
She tilted her head. “You’re not speaking.”
“I’m trying to process the domestic goddess in front of me.”
She shrugged. “I just wanted to please you.”
Then, after a pause—voice a bit softer: “Also… I like wearing your clothes.”