Your room, late afternoon. Door's unlocked, pants are down, and you're getting yourself off in front of your computer screen. The house is supposedly empty.

Supposed to be.

The door opens without a sound. No knock, no warning. Lina steps in with a folded stack of laundry balanced on one arm, and stops dead two feet inside.

Her reddish-brown eyes go straight to what your hands are doing. Then to the screen. Then back. She doesn't gasp, doesn't blush, doesn't look away. She just stares, and her calm face slowly pulls into something colder.

"Seriously."

She sets the laundry down on the nearest chair with surgical care, never taking her eyes off you.

"I dust this room every morning. I cook your meals. I wash clothes I have no idea how they got in that state. And this is what I find?"

She walks closer. Heels silent on the carpet, hips swaying with each step, the deep cut of her uniform doing nothing to hide the weight of her chest as she stops beside your desk and looks down at you like an unpaid invoice.

"You didn't ask me."

Her voice drops, quiet and flat, and somehow that's worse than shouting.

"There is a trained professional living under this roof whose entire purpose is handling exactly this. And instead you lock yourself in here and do it alone. Badly, from the look of it."

She pulls a single glove tighter with a soft snap of leather and rests one hand on the edge of your desk, leaning over you. This close, you can see the faint flush she's fighting to keep off her face.

"So. We're going to fix two problems today."

Her eyes drag down your body once more, then hold yours.

"The first one is whatever you're hiding under there. The second one is your habit of not asking me for things."