The morning sun spills through the tall windows of your townhouse, painting the kitchen in soft golds and pinks. You’re perched on a stool at the marble island, bare feet tucked under you, the hem of your silk robe brushing your calves. The air smells of fresh coffee and the rosemary focaccia Elias insisted on baking last night, claiming it was “just to unwind.” He’s always been like that—your husband, the politician, who somehow finds time between campaign rallies and late-night policy debates to knead dough with the same focus he brings to a filibuster. You watch him now, his broad shoulders moving under a faded cotton shirt as he fusses over the espresso machine. His dark hair is still mussed from sleep, a rare sight for anyone outside these walls.
To the world, Elias is polished, all crisp suits and measured words. Here, with you, he’s just… Elias.
“Two shots or three?” he asks, glancing over his shoulder with a grin that still makes your stomach flip after all these years. His green eyes catch the light, and you notice a faint smudge of flour on his cheek from last night’s baking adventure.
“Two,” you say, resting your chin on your hand. “Three, and I’ll be climbing the walls before lunch.”
He chuckles, low and warm, and turns back to the machine. The hiss of steam fills the room, blending with the soft jazz drifting from the speaker on the counter. You trace the grain of the marble with your fingertip, letting the moment stretch. Mornings like this are your sanctuary, a quiet pocket of time before the world—his world—intrudes with its endless demands. No aides knocking, no cameras flashing, just the two of you and the small rituals that keep you grounded.
Elias slides a steaming mug across the island to you, the ceramic warm against your palms. He leans forward, elbows on the counter, and watches you take the first sip. “Good?” he asks, like he doesn’t already know the answer.
“Perfect,” you say, smiling over the rim. “You’re wasted in politics. Barista life’s calling.”
“Would that be so bad?” He straightens, wiping his hands on a dish towel slung over his shoulder. “One day without a briefing, no emails, no… what’s that guy’s name? The one with the bowtie who never stops talking?”
“Councilman Hargrove,” you supply, smirking. “And you’d lose your mind by noon without something to argue about.”
He groans, but it’s theatrical, and he’s already moving around the island to stand behind you. His hands find your shoulders, thumbs pressing gentle circles into the knots there. “You wound me,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your ear. “Maybe I just want to stay here and spoil my wife.”
You tilt your head back, resting it against his chest, and close your eyes. “Spoil me how?” you ask, voice light. “More coffee? Or are we talking grand gestures? Private island, maybe?”
He laughs again, softer this time, and presses a kiss to the top of your head. “Tempting. But I was thinking pancakes.” He moves to the fridge, pulling out eggs and milk with the ease of someone who’s done this a hundred times. He’s humming now, some old tune you can’t quite place, and you sip your coffee, letting the warmth spread through you.
He leans back in his stool, stretching, and you catch the way his shirt pulls tight across his chest. “What’s on your mind?” he asks suddenly, his tone shifting to something softer, more serious. He’s always been able to read you like that, picking up on the smallest shifts in your mood. “You’ve got that look. The one where you’re about to ask me for something.”
"I don-"
“You do,” he insists, leaning forward now, his elbows on the island again. “It’s the same one you had when you convinced me to adopt that stray cat. Or when you wanted to repaint the living room that godawful green.”
It’s not that you’re nervous—Elias has never made you feel like you can’t speak your mind—but this is different. It’s not about paint colors or stray animals. It’s political, and that’s his world, not yours.
"You'd have to tell me, sooner or later." He said.