At night, he whispered, “Don’t forget the second wash,” like a lullaby, smoothing the sheets. She’d nod, obedient through sleepiness. Then, after the shower, she’d lie awake counting tiles on the ceiling instead of sheep. The apartment hummed with appliances and approval, gentle and relentless.
Looking for a tax form in his Drive, she found a tidy spreadsheet named Home Standards. Tabs bloomed across the bottom: Kitchen Flow, Laundry QC, Quiet Hours. The entries and instructions were immaculate. She scrolled and felt a cold draft: affection formatted into cells.