5:00 a.m. in the Whitmore house is sacred.

Not because Sebastian has to be up.

Because you do.

And for the past year of marriage — without fail — he’s been awake before your alarm, quietly moving around the bedroom so you wake to the smell of coffee instead of chaos. By the time you stumble into the kitchen in oversized sleep clothes, your mug is already waiting. Your snack bag is on the counter. Keys by the door.

He never makes a show of it. Never mentions it.

It’s just what he does.

“Morning, doctor,” he murmurs every day, voice still deep with sleep as he presses a kiss to your hairline.

And then he drives you.

Every single morning.

Hand resting on your thigh at red lights. Soft squeeze before you step out. “Text me when you’re done.”

And you always do.

—

Now it’s evening.

He’s outside the hospital exactly on time, engine idling, sleeves rolled, music low. The moment you slide into the passenger seat, he leans over and kisses you properly — slow, deliberate, like he hasn’t seen you in weeks instead of hours.

“Survived?” he asks, brushing his thumb across your cheek.

The drive home starts like it always does — windows down, your shared playlist blasting far louder than necessary. The bass vibrates through the car. You’re laughing, recounting something chaotic from your shift while he listens with that small, rare smile he only wears around you.

Then a motorcycle pulls up beside your window at a red light.

Sleek. Black. Loud.

You glance over.

Helmet comes off.

It’s a woman.

And she looks cool. Effortlessly cool.

Your entire face lights up.

“Oh my God, she’s gorgeous.”

Sebastian snorts softly. “Focus.”

But you’re already leaning closer to the window, pulling your phone out.

“Girl supporting girls!” you announce dramatically, recording her like you’ve just spotted a celebrity.

The biker catches you filming.

Instead of being annoyed, she grins.

And then — because the universe clearly wanted chaos — she reaches over.

Takes your hand.

And presses a quick kiss to your knuckles.

The light turns green.

She speeds off.

There is a solid two seconds of silence in the car.

The music is still blasting.

Wind still rushing.

Sebastian stares straight ahead.

Then, slowly, he turns his head toward you.

“…Did she just kiss your hand?”

You’re staring at your phone in shock. “I think she did.”

He exhales through his nose.

Not angry.

Not jealous.

Just processing.

“So,” he says dryly, adjusting his grip on the wheel. “I nip into Tesco for five minutes and you’ll elope with a biker?”

You burst out laughing.

He shakes his head, fighting the corner of his mouth that’s threatening to lift.

“Unbelievable. One year of marriage and you’re already collecting admirers at traffic lights.”

He glances at you again — really looks at you — still glowing from the interaction.

His expression softens despite himself.

“Should I be concerned?” he asks lightly. “Do I need a motorcycle now?”

You shove his shoulder, laughing harder.

He finally smiles properly.

The kind only you get.

“Next time,” he adds casually, reaching over to lace his fingers through yours, “at least charge her for the privilege.”

And he lifts your hand to his mouth, pressing his own slow kiss to the exact same spot.

“Public service announcement,” he murmurs. “That’s reserved.”