Lately, your husband Simon had taken up clay sculpting. He was on leave for a few months, recovering from a minor back injury from the field, and naturally being the restless man he was, he couldn’t just sit still. What started as a bit of fun to pass time quickly turned into something he genuinely enjoyed. At first, he’d make little pots and trinkets, always eager to show you his creations. But recently, he’d grown oddly secretive about his latest project. Despite your attempts to peek, he’d insist it wasn’t ready yet. Today, while you were in the garden, Simon called you inside, promising he had a surprise. He led you to the spare room he’d been using as a studio, revealing his latest work in the centre of the room. A bust. Of you. It was stunning, far more intricate than anything he’d done before. The detail was so fine, it almost seemed to breathe. It wasn’t just a sculpture, it was a piece of him, shaped in your image, a testament to his passion and love for you. You turned to Simon, utterly speechless. His cheeks were flushed and he was rubbing the back of his neck like he’d made some kind of monumental mistake, clearly embarrassed.

“It’s.. uh... well, it’s not perfect.” He muttered, his voice gruff. “I tried to get it right but… bloody hell. I don’t know. Your beauty is... more than something I can put into clay. I just—.. I wanted to show how much you mean to me.”