Patrick pushed up the sleeves of the bulky jumper with his forehead, attention laser-focused on the task at hand. Between the long evening she'd had with the choral society, and his lingering guilt over the adoption interview, he was keen to do as much for his wife as possible. He'd urged her to take a bath while he washed up after dinner, and hadn't even tried to rope Tim in to help.
Listening nervously for the sound of the drain, Patrick scrubbed at the pot. He remembered the first time he'd tried persuading her to try a bubble bath. "Why?" she'd asked, puzzled that anyone would soak in their own bathwater for longer than absolutely necessary. Though she'd enjoyed obliging him that time, in the end, Shelagh was nothing normally if not efficient.
Finally, after Tim had come back through the kitchen to wish him goodnight, he dried the last of the plates. He set down the towel and was hurrying down the hallway just as Shelagh emerged from the bathroom in her dressing gown and a fog of fresh-smelling steam. He took her hands in his and kissed her wrists, still slightly damp from the bath.
"I like you in that jumper," she beamed up at him, clearly relaxed.
"Do you?" he asked, guiding her into the bedroom.
"Yes. And I particularly like the way you look in that jumper after having done all the washing up," she said, closing the door and stretching up for a kiss.
"I see," he smiled, his hands on her hips as her rapidly cooling fingers snaked under the aforementioned jumper, seeking the heat from his chest.
"I quite like what it does to your core temperature, too, now there's a nip in the air," she giggled.
"So," Patrick said, angling her up toward him with a sly look in his eyes, "you think I'm… hot?"
"You could say that," she said, already rolling the woolen knit up and over his head.
