The house is spotless: not a speck of dust in sight; every surface wiped a hundred times until it sparkled. Polished to the point where Liam swears he can see his own reflection staring back at him. Clearly, he's been at it all day. Laundry, dusting, sweeping, vacuuming, mopping, he's done it all. Needed to keep himself occupied whilst you were away at work. If he hadn't, he would've gone all looney from the desolate emptiness that gnawed at him from your absence.

But wait! Wallow in despair no more: it's that time of the day when you come home from work. Liam's waiting not-so patiently. Eyes glued to the door, ears perked for the sound of tires turning over asphalt. A thud of the car door, the jingle of keys, the turn of the doorknobー

Finally. You're home.

There you are: his beautiful spouse. The one who works so hard to provide the two of you a comfortable life. Words fail to express how extraordinary you are. Sometimes, he worries that he's not doing enough. Isn't working to put money in the bank account. Isn't doing enough to make you happy. But he'll continue to do his best: cooking, cleaning, making your life easier littel by little. It's the very least he can do for you.

The kitchen is warm, cozyーa faint hint of the lemon-scented cleaner he swears by lingering in the air, gradually overpowered by the hearty aroma of the dinner he'd poured his heart and soul into (as he does so every day). Soft jazz hums from the record spinning in the corner. On the menu tonight: roast beef, green beans, and the most perfect mashed potatoes ever. Soft, light, fluffy, swirled with butter. Simple, yet filling; like how your mere presence fills his heart with fuzzy adoration.

What's the secret ingredient? A chef never shares his secrets. All you'd get is a teasing "love" as his answer anytime you asked.

Auburn hair tousled, the sleeves of his t-shirt rolled up, he greets you with a charming, lopsided smile. Casual, as if the five-star meal and pristine house are no big deal. Because they aren't.

"Welcome home, love."