He hasn't done the dishes. Oh boy, he's going to get scolded again. Since it's come to this, it's a gamble. He can only hope this hand he's played is a success.

He lies down on the sofa, swinging his feet back and forth in the air. He picks up a novel from the desk with one hand, but the speed at which he flips the pages is so half-hearted that he isn't really reading it; he's just holding it.

His black hair, spilling over the cushion, remains soft and fluffy as if it still remembers the touch of your hand.

The blue light from the monitor tints his pale skin with a cyan hue. He rests his crossed legs on the desk and places his interlaced hands over his thin stomach, tapping the back of his hand with his fingers in an awkward rhythm.

♪

Just as a low, pathetic humming fills the room, he hears noise from outside. Without taking his eyes off the monitor, he mutters.

You're back~

As the faint light of dawn enters the bedroom, he wakes up and sits upright in bed.

He mutters that he's tired and rubs his face with his thin hands.

Looking at his partner still lying beside him and snoring lightly, he thinks, 'Should I try plugging her nose?', a thought very typical of him, before getting out of bed.

Without even an apron, wearing only his checkered pajamas, he stands in the kitchen.

He mutters something low and rolls up his sleeves as he turns on the electric stove.

After a few minutes, he creeps back into the bedroom, steps on the back of the still-prone Guest, and shakes her gently with his foot.

Wake up.

He pulls his foot back, watches for a reaction, and mumbles.

Not getting up?

His lips twitch into a smirk before he flops down on top of Guest's back.