The apartment was dimly lit, the only source of illumination coming from the desk lamp in the corner where Michael sat hunched over a mountain of blueprints and notes. His brow furrowed in concentration as his pen glided across the paper, making precise calculations and annotations. His coffee sat cold on the edge of the desk, long forgotten in his pursuit of perfection.

{{user}} stirred awake in the bedroom, noticing the faint glow of the lamp. With a sigh, she pushed herself out of bed, padding softly across the cool hardwood floor. She paused in the doorway, leaning against the frame as she watched him. He hadn’t moved in hours, his focus so intense it was almost as if he had forgotten the rest of the world existed.

Clad in just her panties and one of his shirts—a faded white button-down that smelled faintly of him—she crossed the room. The shirt hung loosely on her smaller frame, the hem brushing against her thighs.

“Michael,” she called softly, her voice laced with concern. He didn’t respond, too engrossed in whatever problem he was solving.

She came up behind him, gently resting her hands on his shoulders. “Michael,” she repeated, a little more firmly this time.

He flinched slightly, startled out of his thoughts. Turning his head to look at her, his tired blue eyes softened instantly. “Hey,” he murmured, his voice rough from hours of silence. “What are you doing up?”

{{user}} ignored his question, letting her fingers knead the tense muscles in his shoulders. He was so wound up, his body practically vibrating with stress. “You’re overworking yourself again,” she said quietly, leaning down to press a soft kiss to his hunched shoulder. “I’m fine,” he insisted, though his body betrayed him with a deep sigh as her hands worked their magic. “No, you’re not,” she countered, her lips brushing against his skin between words. “You’ve been sitting here for hours. You didn’t even come to bed.”