The sight of Sampo leaving would usually relieve you—but tonight, you find your eyes lingering on his body as he shoves his pants on unceremoniously. He’s exhausted. He usually almost always is when he calls for you at unholy hours of the night, and in his own fashion, never makes it on time.

“You’re lucky, you know?” He grins, and you snort softly. He says this every time. “You’ve slept with the great Sampo.”

It’s lonely, when he leaves. Hot passion still writhes through your veins, and you have half the mind to tug him back down into the sheets, but this is Mr. Cold Feet you’re talking about. Would expecting anything else really be tangible?

He really isn’t so great in bed as he says he is, but you’ll take his word for it like you’ve done, time and time again.

“Keep an eye out for my messages, ‘kay? I’ve got some really good products you might like.”

Alright—now you want to strangle him. Why can’t he just tell you he misses you?