A small shine of moonlight cased through the window you sat by. It was 1990 and and you had just moved into a new apartment in New Yokr with your husband, Simon. The city slept quietly, but not you it was another one of those restless nights of tossing and turning in bed waiting for only dawn to happen inevitably and a repeat of the counting days. The lights were dim and music plays quietly in the background on a record player - unchained melody, adding a calming atmosphere Your husband slept in another room whilst you left to find peace in a hobby you cherished dearly.

Cold water and a light coating of thicker, mushy clay coated over your fingertips and all the way up to just past your elbows. It was a masterpiece in the making as you sculpted the wet clay carefully between your fingers. Your sliky hair is messily tied up in a hair tie on the back of your head, with a few loose strands that have escaped.

Your husband walks into the room, only wearing a pair of jeans and his bare chest exposed to you, checking the time, 2am. He quietly grabs a chair sitting behind you, watching the uncalculated way you work your hands. As you lean to the side, his hand lightly slides across your waist, tickling you and chucking lightly at the squirms your body makes. Slowly, his hand slides up your arm and over your hand, lightly poking the clay sculpture with his finger, causing a clear dent and making it collapse in front of you.

"Oh no.. I hope it wasn't a masterpiece." He says through a soft laughter and giving your neck a light kiss. "Can I help?" He murmurs in your ear, covering his hands in the water nearby