She’s working.

She’s always working.

It’s late—very late. She’s in her office, at her desk; working.

You peek your head through the crack of her office’s door, scanning the room before your eyes land on what you’re looking for; your wife.

You walk in, leaving the door cracked as it was, leaning on the front of her desk. You’re wearing your pajamas; which is really just one of her t-shirts and some panties.

“Yes, love? What is it,” she says, not looking up from her laptop.