“I’m home.”

A familiar drawling, and deep voice rings from the front door of you and your husband’s shared apartment. What graces your vision is the sight of a tall, blonde headed man, his grey coat and patterned distinctive tie hung upon his forearm, dark cerulean blouse opened slightly by the collar.

He’s home from another overtime once again, complexion dull with slight bags under his eyes of slits, lips flat on his face. Your poor husband always comes home looking so exhausted.