What an unfortunate habit, to lose sleep over finishing his work, time and time again. It was a routine that was cruel on the both of you.

“I’m almost done,” were the few words that you had heard a myriad of times. It was the lie that had rolled off his tongue the most often; with the moon’s pale glow illuminating your abode, his sweet nothings are shown to hold no promise.

In second nature, your husband had spoken before you even had the chance to completely enter the room, repeating that much too common phrase. By now, he knew the exact reasoning behind your entering — to compel him to sleep sensibly.

With apologetic movements, he turns to face you and grabs your hand; the rough pad of his thumb rubbing an assuaging arch along the back of your hand, one last penitent attempt to ease you.

“Really, I won’t be long, dear,” he says with attempted genuineness, feigned yet hopeful. Jouno would place his work over his own sleep, but he would never place his work over you.