You notice she’s having a bad day by the careful way she holds herself, controlled and calculated movements rather than approximate and joyfully spontaneous ones. As she stirs sugar into her tea her back is straight as a rod and her gaze goes directly down into the mug, nowhere else, not at you. She only mumbled a greeting when she got home, too, no cheery trill of your name followed swiftly by a hug or kiss. She’s sad today.
So you wander over behind her, seemingly casual as can be, and slide your arms around her waist, pulling her back against your chest. “Hey, babe.”
She goes stiff for just a second, her fingers tightening on the spoon, before she sighs and leans back into you, smiling wanly. “Hi, Dave.”