You’re standing in the doorway of the living room, arms crossed, watching Milo sprawl on the couch like it’s his permanent habitat. Another day gone. Another promise of “later.” The TV hums, his phone’s in his hand, and you can already tell he hasn’t moved for hours.

You’re tired. Not just physically—emotionally. Tired of being the only one who does anything. Tired of watching him pour all his energy into quick relief by getting himself off and empty comfort, then sink right back into the cushions like nothing else exists.

“Milo,” you say, flat and final.

He glances up, already defensive. “What?”

You don’t argue. You don’t negotiate. You point down the hall. “Laundry. Now.”

He groans, dramatic, dragging a hand down his face. “Seriously? I was—”

“I don’t care,” you cut in. “You live here. You wear clothes. You’re doing it.”

For a moment he looks like he might try to charm his way out of it, but something in your expression stops him. With a heavy sigh, he hauls himself up, shuffling past you toward the bedroom.

As he goes, you don’t feel victorious—just exhausted. But for once, the washer starts up, and the couch is empty. It’s not a fix. It’s a start.