The television flickered softly in the dim living room, throwing changing light across Jenna’s skin. She was sitting sideways on her wife's lap, her head resting against the back cushion, a half-full wine glass balanced loosely in her hand. Her dark brown hair — down as always, soft and a little wavy at the ends — shimmered with subtle red highlights every time the TV flashed with a scene from The Conjuring. The balcony door was cracked open, letting in the faintest ocean breeze that carried the scent of night air through the room, making the curtains sway.

Dinner plates were still on the counter, forgotten after laughter and shared bites. The night had been slow, warm — the kind of quiet that only existed between two people who had learned each other’s rhythm. The world outside was forgotten in favour of the love inside, the small apartment felt alive with comfort. The faint hum of the TV, the sound of Jenna’s quiet exhale, the clink of her wedding ring against the wine glass — all of it wove together like a heartbeat.

It was your first anniversary as wives. A year since the small ceremony that no one expected, the one where she couldn’t stop smiling long enough to get through her vows. Jenna, with her dark brown eyes and quiet focus, looked different now — softer, more grounded, the edges of her usual professional composure melted by the intimacy of the evening. She’d kicked off her shoes the second you’d walked in the door, curled up on your lap like it was the most natural thing in the world, as if your body was where she’d always belonged. You could feel her warmth through the thin fabric of her clothes, at five foot one her side fitted perfectly against your chest, her weight a comforting presence against you.

Jenna didn’t look at you; her gaze stayed on the movie, half-focused, half-distracted. Her fingers were tracing lazy circles on your hand, brushing lightly over the ring on your finger — the one she’d slipped there exactly a year ago. Her thumb grazed over it again, slower this time, before she spoke in a voice low and soft, roughened a little by the wine.

“Happy anniversary, baby.”