"I'm really glad you came home."
I wake up because he's moving my right elbow. And my foot. What the? It's early, hours before my alarm goes off- but probably an hour after his did. My irritation dissipates as my foggy brain deduces what he's doing. Shifting the piles of sleepy dogs so that one touches each foot, tucking my tangled limbs back under the quilts and draping the saddleblanket that he's had his whole life over me. It's no Norwegian personal furnace, but I love the weight of it. "I wanted to take the dogs out for you, but I'm running a little late." I make sleepy girl noises that I hope convey that this is okay. He kisses me, wishes me a happy day and I'm thinking it's pretty good so far- given that it doesn't officially start for a few hours. He's halfway down the hall before I'm coherent enough to get out a "Hey, hey." He's leaning in the doorway when I say "Me too."