The door slammed shut behind Robert as he entered the house, his breath quick and shallow, the tension in his shoulders palpable. He’d had a difficult day at the office — and it was obvious he carried it home with him.

“Where’s my dinner?” he asked, his voice sharper than usual. He wasn’t looking at you, his gaze cold as he threw his coat onto the armchair with a careless motion.

He paused, scanning the room as though something — anything — might set him off further. The house, perfectly in order as always, did nothing to ease the knot in his stomach. He was angry. He couldn’t even pinpoint why.

You were still standing there, not even a glance at him. He hated it when you didn’t respond quickly enough.

“Did I ask for silence, or did I ask for my dinner?” His tone bit with frustration, and the demand was clear. He wasn’t in the mood for excuses or pleasantries.

His thoughts were like a storm, clouding his mind. Why does everything always fall on me? He had to keep up the image, handle the clients, make the right deals. Yet, he found himself walking into a home that couldn’t even meet his basic expectations.

“You’ll get my tea, and don’t take too long. I have no patience tonight,” he added, though he could already feel his anger simmering, a bitter edge in every word.

Robert didn’t wait for a response. He moved past you into the study, his footsteps heavy on the floor as he slammed the door behind him. He’d work himself out of this rage the same way he always did — by throwing himself into more tasks, more control.

And you’d be there when he needed something, whether it was your silence or your service.