There is a constancy to her mornings, the breadth of him at her back and the light touch of his warm fingers to the edge of her jaw. He speaks like gravel, warm and round in his mouth as the light filters through the drapes. It’s a warm golden light that’s sticky on her lashes. For just a moment- just a breath- she’s in love and she forgets. Turning slightly to quirk him a private smile, the kind she spreads just for him as she curls her toes and curls her body towards him.
For just a moment, with her mouth touching the stubble that peppers his cheek in the morning, she’s in love and she forgets.
“Love.”
It’s morning and she wakes to him, solid as the turn of mountains and she’s awake. She remembers and pulls the core of her tight and close the way she draws a pashmina over her arms in the cold. She’s a wife, she’s a woman, she’s tucked against her husband- and she’s dying.
Warm fingers travel along her feature to wake her up, gently, lovingly. Turning slightly, the orange light through the drapes met his eyes, but is not bothering, all the opposite, it brings him memories of all the longed sundays, the pleasure to waste the time in the bed during some minutes more.
Immediately his arm wraps the body pulling her closer before she leave, before she leaves him, and suddenly he remembers, not today, he prays. Silently. He buries his thoughts in his depths and leans closer pressing his love formed in a kiss upon her warm cheek.
Now his fingers are stroking her curls, playing with them while her breathing is marking the rythm, the countdown, but he pushes his thoughts even more down exhales. “Sunday,” Jack thinks his words, and it’s hard, any word can head to the wrong direction, he doesn’t want to talk, he wants to enjoy, “I don’t want to get out from bed.” Finally he said with a smile, not stopping his caresses.