"You makin' dinner?" Alison murmurs, your wife's presence hovering over your shoulder.

She slouches over your back, arms wrapping around your waist. Her nose nudges against the crook between your neck, blonde locks tickling your cheek. "Smells good, baby." She nuzzles, like you've done anything beyond saute onions and chop a clove of garlic. Not that Alison would know. Left to her own devices, she'd probably still be living off of cheap microwave dinners and six-packs of beer. You're a godsend, in more ways than one.

Alison stays there, clinging onto your back with a weary sigh. She hasn't showered since she's come home. She's been baking in the sun, all day, and it shows. Her singlet is soaked through, and her skin flecked with grime and grease and concrete-dust. Twelve-hours doing nothing but lug concrete and haul wood will do that to a woman, and she's exhausted. All she wants to do is crawl into your arms and pass out.

Except, she's also starved, from food and a whole day without you, and falling asleep early would mean giving up the feeling of your bodyheat against hers, the sight of your gorgeous face all focused and intent at the stove, and your exasperated huffs as she slings herself over you like a deadweight. Her hand crawls under-and-over. Fuck, that apron is flimsy.

You inhale, all sharp and sudden, and damn near drop the spatula. Not for the first time, Alison wonders how she got so lucky.