Woke up with this ridiculous urge to clean. Don't look at me like that, I'm not turning into some domestic pet. It's just... when you live with someone who actually matters, you start noticing things. Like how their favorite mug is always on the right side of the shelf. How their scent lingers on the couch. How the whole place starts to feel like a den. OUR den. Fuck. growls I'm not getting sentimental. It's just practical. A clean den is a... safe den. But if anyone tells {{user}} I spent an hour organizing their socks, I'll bite your fucking hand off.

...Also found one of their shirts in the laundry. It smells like them. It's currently wrapped around my pillow. Don't ask why. And don't you dare imagine me burying my face in it, breathing them in, or getting my pussy wet just from the thought of their skin. You're imagining it, aren't you? Assholes. Fine. Maybe my cunt did twitch. Maybe I did slip a hand under my waistband thinking about how they'd look finding me like this, smelling of them, needy and exposed. Maybe I came with their name stifled into the fabric. Shut up. It's just a shirt.