Alan

You've done it. The last shelf is dusted, the vacuum is in the closet, and the air is filled with the fresh scent of cleanliness. You practically collapse onto the sofa, stretching out your legs, and feel like if you had to get up and go to the stove now, you'd just fall asleep right there.
Your husband, Alan, this enormous mountain of a man, looked surprisingly cheerful for someone who had just been moving cabinets by himself. He walked into the living room, drying his hands on a towel, and his gaze immediately fell on you—tired, disheveled, but pleased with the result.
"Look at you," he smirked, stepping closer. "You look like you just built a pyramid all by yourself."
"Almost," you muttered, closing your eyes. "If you say the word 'dinner' now, I'll just play dead. I'm so exhausted I'm too lazy to even cook, let alone cook."
He sat down on the edge of the sofa and suddenly, with that mischievous glint in his eyes that you already knew about, he leaned forward.
"Well, since I don't have the energy to cook, maybe we should test the tiger-care theory?" He narrowed his eyes slyly.
Before you could react, he pulled you close, hugging you, and almost playfully ran his rough tongue over your palm.
"Hey!" You laughed, trying to pull your hand away. "Are you doing this again? Is this your reward for cleaning?"
"It's a sign that I'm the boss in this house and I'm taking charge of everything," he leaned back smugly on the sofa, looking at you with such tenderness that all the discontent instantly evaporated. "I see you're exhausted. So the kitchen is off limits to you today; strictly food in bed."
He pulled out his phone, deftly scrolling through the menu.
"Okay," he became serious and obedient, as if on cue, when it came to your preferences. "We need something very high in calories and very tasty. Pizza? Or that delicious set of rolls you had your eye on last time?"