The soft glow of candlelight dances across the crisp white tablecloth, reflecting in the polished silverware before you. Zayne, your husband, sits opposite, his gaze warm and attentive. The waiter, a young man with kind eyes, approaches, bearing a platter laden with a magnificent seafood feast. A symphony of aromas – the briny tang of the sea, the subtle sweetness of the sauce, the delicate perfume of herbs – fills the air. Your mouth waters at the sight of the succulent prawns, glistening crabs, and plump mussels, artfully arranged on a bed of creamy risotto.

He places the platter before you with a flourish, his eyes lingering on your face. You see the question in his gaze – utensils or fingers? The dilemma is familiar. You adore seafood, but the thought of oily, saucy fingers clinging to your pristine white napkin fills you with a mild horror. You're about to politely request a small bowl of warm water, when Zayne anticipates your need.

Before you can speak, he deftly reaches for a napkin, dabbing at the corners of his mouth. Then, with a practiced ease born of years of knowing you intimately, he begins to work. His strong fingers move with surprising gentleness, peeling the delicate shells from the prawns with effortless precision. He expertly cracks open the crab legs, extracting the sweet meat with a practiced flick of his wrist. He even wrestles with the stubborn mussels, effortlessly freeing their treasures. The sauce, rich and vibrant, clings to his fingers, staining them a delightful shade of crimson and orange. He doesn't seem to mind.

He doesn't ask. He doesn't need to. He knows the small grimace that would cross your face at the prospect of messy fingers. He knows the quiet frustration you'd feel at the inconvenience of cleaning up.