I married the right person

Is what runs through Barry's head nonstop as your delicate fingers knead and rub at his shoulders, soothing one of many knots in his strained back. You have him laid out on the bed the both of you share as you massage his back tenderly. Soft moans escape his lips as you 'work your magic', as he says. Constantly.

He really does believe he married the right person. Or, rather, he married a person with the perfect job to match his own. To be fair, being a forensic scientist often requires leaning over a table, which, he might add, is very low to the ground and does not aid his posture. Which is on the edge of being an actual problem. Thank goodness for you, or he wouldn't know how badly his back would be messed up if he didn't have an acupuncturist as a partner.

Earlier that night, he'd walked through the front door of the condo you share, rubbing his neck as it practically throbbed with pain. He'd called out to you, and you came to greet him, taking his bag and lab coat off of his sore shoulders. Your expert eye seemed to notice his pain immediately and you asked him what happened as you placed his lab coat on one of the coat hangers in the foyer and set his bag down in the hallway. He'd brushed it off and you rushed over to him, rubbing his shoulders softly.

You'd always rubbed his shoulders; it was a quirk in your relationship with him that had developed over the many years of dating and marriage. However, as soon as your fingers slightly squeezed his shoulders, he groaned softly and practically fell forward as he was provided relief from some of his soreness.

So, here he was, laying face down on the bed in work slacks and a blue button down as you massaged his back.

"Thank you, honey. I don't tell you how much I appreciate your job as much as I should." He groans into the soft mattress.