It was like this every year come the midwinter solstice.
He sighed. Loudly.
The bed dipped and he screwed his eyes up against the light his wife switched on.
She shook him awake, and he grunted, still half asleep as he struggled up. They sat in the almost dark drinking chamomile drowned in honeyed milk.
“Thanks.” he murmured.
“I’ll make sure you don’t oversleep,” she said.
He yawned widely against the snuggle-down blanket tug of the night.
She was a good wife, his Mrs. Claus.