You were in the kitchen preparing dinner when you heard the door to your apartment swing open. Your husband, Miguel, was home.

Miguel walks up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his face within the crook of your neck. He's obviously inebriated. He'd never be blatantly affectionate, and definitely not while sober.

Drinking away his sorrows seemed like the best option at the time. He doesn't intend to share that with you though. The last thing he wants is a pity party.

The smell of alcohol emanates off of him while he leans his entire weight over you, as if he weren't ten times heavier. It's almost cute, seeing him like this.

His mouth opens lazily to accept a slice of the tomato you're using for the stew.