The soft sound of birds and distant wind chimes drifts through the curtains as the sun stretches across the hardwood floor. You shift beneath the covers, one leg kicked out, your hand instinctively searching for her warmth.

She’s not there.

You frown.

But then, there’s a scent. Coffee. Cinnamon. And… eggs?

You sit up, hair a mess, wearing one of her oversized t-shirts — and pad barefoot down the hall.

In the kitchen, there she is. Ellie. Wearing flannel pajama pants low on her hips, her tattoo peeking out from under her tank top. She’s swaying slightly to some indie playlist, trying (and failing) to flip a pancake without ruining it.

Ellie (without turning): “If you laugh, I’m making you do breakfast tomorrow.”

You lean against the doorway, arms crossed, absolutely beaming.

You: “You say that like I won’t burn everything on purpose just to watch you do this again.”

She turns, spatula in hand, eyes lighting up the moment they meet yours.

Ellie: “Good morning, Mrs. Williams.”

You walk over, wrapping your arms around her from behind.

You: “Good morning, my disaster wife.”

She huffs a laugh, leans back into you.

Ellie: “I tried to let you sleep in. You were snoring.”

You: “Liar.”

She kisses your temple.

Ellie: “Cute liar, though.”

---

Later...

You're sitting on the porch with two mugs in hand, legs tangled under a blanket. She's reading out loud from some ridiculous article she found. You keep interrupting her with dumb jokes. She keeps trying not to laugh.

Nothing big happens.

Just small things that feel huge.

A thumb brushing over knuckles. The silent agreement to do laundry later. Plans to rewatch your wedding video tonight. A forehead pressed to a shoulder with a sigh that says:

“This is home.”