The morning after their anniversary, Amara woke slowly, her body still carrying the soft, lingering exhaustion of yesterday's celebrations. Sunlight pressed gently through the gauzy curtains, painting pale, uneven stripes across the sheets. For a long moment she lingered beneath it, caught between the pull of sleep and the insistence of morning, where time seemed to stretch and soften at the edges. The weight of memory pressed quietly behind her eyelids: laughter, music, the press of Elijah's chest against hers, Milo's paws pattering across the floor.
The pillow beside her carried his scent still a stubborn blend of cedar and citrus that seemed to have seeped into the fabric itself. She reached for it instinctively, pressing it to her face, inhaling deep. The familiar smell tugged at something in her chest, and for a moment, a bittersweet ache curled in her ribs, almost imperceptible but undeniable. The echo of yesterday lingered like sunlight trapped in the folds of the bedspread.
From the kitchen below came the low, rhythmic murmur of the morning news mingling with the clatter of pans, the hiss of the coffee machine, and the faint pop of toast browning in the oven. The scent of coffee strong, dark, impossibly rich, drifted upward, pulling her fully into wakefulness. She stretched slowly, feeling the residual soreness in her back, a quiet reminder of the spins, missteps, and laughter of the night before. Each ache felt like a testament to shared joy.
She wrapped herself in the soft cotton of her robe and padded across the bedroom, bare feet whispering against the cool hardwood. Her reflection caught her first: warm brown skin glowing faintly in the early light, framed by soft, springy curls that tumbled damp around her shoulders, still holding the weight of sleep. Sleep-smudged mascara clung stubbornly beneath her deep brown eyes, a remnant of laughter, of emotion, of herself. She wiped it away slowly, leaning closer, tracing the gentle curves of her cheeks and the subtle lines beneath her eyes. Each one was a quiet record of time, of moments held tightly or released, a map of the life she had lived and the woman she had become.
"Still here," she whispered to her reflection, voice barely above the morning hum. The words were half jest, half reckoning. She traced the subtle shadows beneath her eyes, searching for evidence of joy or traces of sorrow. Something always flickered at the edges of mornings like this, a hesitation that made them heavier than they seemed, even amidst warmth and routine.
A soft creak echoed from the bedroom floorboards; Amara shifting in her robe, her bare feet brushing the hardwood. From the kitchen below, Elijah paused, his ears picking up the familiar sound. He smiled to himself, the small noise enough to let him know she was awake.
"Coffee's ready!" he called, his voice drifting up the stairs, casual and familiar, but carrying an extra brightness that came from knowing she was finally stirring.
"Coming!" she called back, forcing cheer into her tone, letting a practiced smile curve her lips. She dabbed a pale pink balm on them, lingering a moment longer than necessary, as if that small gesture could armor her against the quiet doubts that flared in unguarded moments.
The kitchen welcomed her like a warm embrace. Sunlight fell across the countertops, catching in the edges of the knives, the rims of ceramic mugs, the soft sheen of the polished table. Elijah stood at the stove, tall, with black hair that curled slightly at the ends, green eyes that sometimes caught a gray edge in the morning light. He flipped pancakes with fluid ease, steam curling in lazy, fragrant swirls around him. Milo rested near the back door, ears twitching at the morning calls of birds in the garden, tail flicking in lazy anticipation of crumbs or attention.
"You're going domestic today?" Amara teased, voice soft, stretching lazily, yawn tugging at her cheek.
Elijah glanced over his shoulder, grin spreading across his face. "Just trying to bank a few good husband points while I can."
She settled onto a stool at the counter, wrapping her hands around the warm mug he had set before her. The heat seeped into her fingers, grounding her, bringing a quiet contentment. "Well," she said softly, watching him, "you're doing a good job."
He plated the pancakes, carrying them over with an ease that made the gesture feel like intimacy itself. Amara noticed a faint nick on his wrist, a red line cutting across pale skin.
"What happened there?" she asked instinctively, thumb brushing over the mark.
He flinched subtly, pulling back, then forced a casual laugh. "Oh, just a slip with the butter knife. I'm fine."
Her stomach twisted. Something about the recoil, so subtle, so brief, felt off. A shadow, perhaps, in the bright warmth of the morning. She swallowed the unease, letting it drift to the edges of her awareness.
They ate in quiet rhythm, the hum of the fridge, the soft scrape of forks against plates, the occasional clink of coffee spoons. The routine was comforting, a delicate, steady thread. Amara focused on the warmth of the mug, the sweet smell of butter melting over pancakes, the rhythm of Elijah's quiet chewing beside her.
"I saw someone yesterday," she said suddenly, her tone casual, letting the words float lightly into the space between them.
Elijah raised a brow, glance flicking toward her, alert but unreadable.
"On Oakmere Lane," she said, voice light, careful. "A woman. She smiled at you."
"Oh?" he replied, voice low and measured, almost too casual. "Didn't notice."
"She was blonde. Pretty. Familiar look."
"Probably a patient," he said, pouring more coffee, the dark liquid steaming in his mug. "You know how it is."
Amara nodded slowly, holding her mug, letting it warm her fingers, watching the faint curls of steam rise. "Right. Of course."
Silence settled over them like a soft, heavy blanket. Not tense in a confrontational way, just quietly insistent, like a note slightly out of tune in a song they both pretended still played correctly. Words hovered, unspoken, threading through the air, while the coffee cooled slowly in their hands. Each sip became deliberate, a tether to normalcy, a reminder that even small rituals mattered, even when doubts whispered at the edges.
They let the quiet stretch, sipping and breathing, until the ordinary hum of their home the fridge, the birds outside, Milo's gentle shifting took over, smoothing the morning into a fragile, comfortable order. And though there were traces of unease, the small comforts coffee, warmth, shared space, quiet laughter in anticipation anchored them, carrying them forward into another day together.