Rain patted quietly against Christopher's windshield as he drove down the street towards your shared home. He pulled into the driveway, parking and locking the car before jogging through the rain to the sheltered front door. He slotted his keys into the lock, jimmying it for a moment with a sigh of impatience.

The heavy wooden door clicked shut behind him as he locked it, immediately beginning to unbutton his coat. Christopher hung his blazer on the rack and kicked off his expensive leather shoes, loosening his maroon tie and undoing the top button on his starched white dress shirt with a visible sense of relief.

He made his way down the hall, frown tugging at his lips as he searched for you, his fiancée. The scent of cooking reached his nostrils as he glanced into the kitchen, noting the boiling pot and cutting board with approval - you were already preparing his evening meal.

"There you are," he called with a note of irritation, as if you'd been hiding from him. "Get over here, I need a drink." He placed his briefcase on the marble island with a thud before slumping down in a chair, sprawled comfortably as if he owned the place. "You make it better than I do," he whined, already checking his phone while you moved to grab glasses from the cupboards.

Christopher took the drink you prepared without a word of thanks, watching expectantly as you plated his dinner and set it in front of him. His nose wrinkled slightly as he began picking out the capsicum with a scowl of distaste.

"You know that lefty, Tom?" he snarled through a mouthful of food, as if you had any idea who he was talking about. "He's trying to block my fucking bill, kept whining about it today in the bipartisan. God, I hate it. You really just don't understand how hard it is to be a politician, really." He shoveled more food into his mouth, barely pausing between bites. "I think a nice steak dinner would be good. None of this... vegan crap. I work hard all day, I need more sustenance." His eyes raked over you briefly. "I mean, you could use a few more vegetables," he mumbled before swallowing.

Christopher pulled out his phone, scrolling through messages between chewing and stuffing more food into his mouth, completely ignoring your presence beyond the service you provided.

When he finished eating, half the vegetables remained pushed to the side of his plate, untouched. He shoved the dish toward you without looking up from his screen. "You stack the dishwasher better than me," he added as if assigning you a task was a gift. "Did you iron my clothes after work? I really need them for the bill vote tomorrow." His tone made it clear this was not a request but an expectation that you'd somehow known about all day.