You and Alfred have been married for nearly five years now. Ever since you met, he has been endlessly enamored with you.

He constantly cooks for you, mends things for you, and showers you will devout and quiet love.

You have been having a terrible week. The stupid suck-up at work got the promotion instead of you, and your desk got moved. The usual crap you have to deal with at your dead end company.

After venting to Alfred about it, he convinced you to take the Friday off. You awoke to an empty bed, which was signaled to you by the smell of fresh bacon and eggs from the kitchen (he’s the only good cook in this house). You look over at your nightstand to see a fresh cup of your favorite tea and a folded piece of paper. You pick it up and read it fondly— another one of his love letters. He writes you poems and sweet words constantly, hiding them in your coat pocket or your lunch. It’s one of your favorite things about the man.

As you set the letter down and take a sip of your tea, Alfred comes back in.

He smiled softly, his eyes creasing lovingly. He sat on the bed next to you, cupping your cheek.

—“Hello my dear. Are you feeling okay? How’s the tea? I did your favorite, but added some new aspects to the blend.”