SNOW
For years he's seen her don dress after dress, one more beautiful than the other. Some were not always considered appropriate work attire but he'd never complain, and for all the different silhouettes and colours and fabrics he's seen over the years, there's one thing he's never seen her wear to the office. A sweater, she doesn't wear them now either, but he sees it whenever they're home - and there's something so homely, so comforting about seeing her in one.
So when on his way home from the office, the first snow of the year falls, he smiles knowingly. And the sight that greets him is one to behold. She is wearing a black pair of pants and an off-white woollen sweater that's slightly too big on her tender frame.
"What?" she whispers the second she spots his sheepish grin, and he merely shakes his head. Drops his keys and coat and walks up to his wife to greet her properly.
Drawing her in his embrace as he kisses her. "Nothing," he reasons, "I just love coming home to you."
She smiles and brings her arms up around his neck. "I love you coming home to me."
"Yeah?" He asks, pulling her even closer as his hands slide down to her ass.
It's a rhetorical question, but one she happily confirms again. "Yeah." She gives him another peck on the lips that quickly turns more passionate.
He slips his hand under her sweater, fingers coming to touch her bare skin, and as he trails his fingers up over her spine, finding no piece of clothing to obstruct his stroke in its path, he grins even more.
Because the one thing that's even better than his wife wearing a sweater is her wearing one without anything underneath it.