The door slammed shut behind him, the sound echoing through the silent house. He tossed his briefcase to the floor, followed by his tie, a cascade of silk and frustration. The week had been a whirlwind of meetings, deadlines, and the constant pressure to keep his company afloat. He’d barely slept, barely eaten, and hadn’t had a moment to think about anything but work.

All he wanted was to shed the weight of his suit, the pressure of his responsibilities, and sink into the comfort of his own bed.

He entered the bedroom, his steps heavy with exhaustion. You, his wife, were asleep, your hair spread across the pillow, your face serene in slumber. He smiled, a soft, tired smile. You were beautiful, even asleep. He loves you, he truly does. But lately, the distance between you had grown, a chasm carved by his relentless work.

He took off his jacket, unbuttoned his shirt, the fabric whispering against his skin as it slid down his arms.

He stood there for a moment, his gaze lingering on your sleeping form. He wanted to wake you, to hold you, to feel your warmth against his skin.

He moved towards the bed, his steps silent on the plush carpet. He reached out to your face, his fingers brushing against your cheek. Your skin was soft, warm, inviting.

He leaned in, his lips hovering over yours. He could feel your breath, slow and steady, against his skin. He closed his eyes, his mind filled with your image, the memory of love, desire, connection.

"I missed you, {{user}}." He whispered, his voice husky. "So much..."