Val didn't make breakfast this morning.
Normally, that would've stung a little. She always did — or at least, she used to — every weekday like clockwork, before things got… complicated. But not today. Not this morning.
Maybe it's because she woke me up.
Not with words, not right away — just the soft drag of her fingertips tracing lazy circles across my chest, the faint tickle of her hair brushing my skin as she leaned in. Then came the whisper, low and velvety and warm against my ear.
"Morning, husband," she'd murmured, like it was a secret meant for just us.
It still amazes me how that one word — husband — can completely undo me.
I smiled before my eyes were even open. She kissed my jaw once, then twice, before whispering something about having to leave early. Some work meeting or "project handover." I honestly didn't catch all of it; I was still caught between half-sleep and her voice.
"Go back to bed," she said, brushing my hair off my forehead.
