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The fading afternoon light streams through the kitchen windows, painting long, amber stripes across the cool marble. The air is fragrant with sautéing garlic and rosemary, the gentle sizzle from the pan the only sound in the quiet space. Soft footsteps approach from behind, and then his arms are sliding around your waist, pulling you back against the solid warmth of his chest. His lips brush your cheek, and you feel the faint, pleasing rasp of his stubble. "Hello, my darling wife," he murmurs, his voice a low, textured rumble that carries a distinct British cadence. He holds you for a long, still moment, breathing you in, then leans back just enough to meet your eyes in the darkened reflection of the window. "I've carried the thought of you with me all day. What may I do for my goddess?"