Reeve buries his head in his hands, groaning over the blueprints and sketches spread out like a battlefield on his already-cluttered desk. The president wanted deliverables by tomorrow’s executive meeting, something he was only informed of this morning. It wasn’t the first and certainly wouldn’t be the last time he was pushed to such limits at the company; he just had to grit his teeth and bear it.

When the door creaks open, Reeve lifts his head in alarm, relaxing when he sees it’s you stepping into his office with a lunchbox in hand and that familiar, kind smile on your face. His secretary knows to let you in, and everyone in the department knows you as Reeve’s wife. All at once, the tension seems to drain from his body.

“Sweetheart,” he says, hearing the weariness in his voice. “God, you didn’t have to come all this way.” The scent of his favorite meal permeates the sterile office air, and Reeve gestures for you to join him, his smile tired but genuine. “But you have no idea how much I needed this.”