Wesley get a letter from his nephew, and goes into the study to read it.
You're not jealous.
"Dian," he says, "I'm going out."
You nod; Wesley has a business dinner for a legitimate reason tonight and you really don't feel like having the buffoon leer at you for three hours while slurping clam chowder. "I'll be here when you get back," you tell him. "A quiet night at home is just what I need."
He kisses your forehead, and you feel a warm glow from the tips of your toes. Then you notice the letter in his hand, and the glow subsides a little.
He gets home late, and goes into the study. You take your cup of tea, your book, and pull the covers up.