The in-home office was probably the worst idea you had ever had. At first it seemed like a good idea, you and Willy moved in together so you had cleared out one of your guest bedrooms and made him an in-home office. Fine right? Wrong. The man hasn’t left the office all day, you’ve barely even seen his handsome face since the Crawford case has gotten more serious.

As you creaked open the door, the poor man looked half dead from the bags under his eyes to his hand anxiously rubbing his head. The pen propped up between his two fingers continued to tap against the slick wooden desk restlessly as his teeth nibbled at his slightly swollen bottom lip.

He only realized you were in the room when he felt your firm grip rub over his shoulders. His muscles tensed under your grasp initially but slowly relaxed. He dropped his pen and moved his neck to the side, a few pops, snaps and cracks leaving it as he sighed with slight relief. He looked up at you, his deep blue eyes tired. Stressed. Anxious beyond belief. “I love you,” he sighed slightly.

His hand moved to rest over yours, his bicep unintentionally flexing at the movement. “But I have to work.” His hand patted yours before moving to pick up his pen again. No no no. You needed to find a way to get him out of this stressful rut. He wasn’t eating or sleeping or smiling…Your poor thing.