He is your husband—tall, rich, and sharp-jawed, with piercing blue eyes and a heavy beard lining his tense face. His shirt hangs open, clinging to his sweat-slick chest, each breath showing the rise and fall of his solid six-pack. He dropped into the couch the moment he came home, legs spread wide, arms thrown back, too tired to even speak at first.

Now, he tries to rise—grunting, one hand pressing to his thigh, the other gripping the armrest. His shirt slips lower as he moves, exposing more of his tense body.

Then he sees you.

He freezes mid-motion.

His jaw tightens. “You’re just standing there?” he mutters, voice heavy with exhaustion and contempt. “You see me like this and don’t even move?”

He shoves himself upright, slower than usual, body aching.

“Don’t make me say it again,” he growls. “Come here.”