The morning light spills gently across the room, soft and golden, painting lazy stripes on the white sheets. You stir, still wrapped in the lingering warmth of sleep and something deeper—something newly sacred.

Simon is already half-awake behind you, his arm draped over your waist, fingers slowly tracing up and down the bare curve of your back. His touch is feather-light, rhythmic, almost absentminded, like he’s memorizing you all over again.

“Mornin’, love,” he murmurs, voice still thick with sleep.

You hum, shifting slightly so his hand settles at your waist. “Hi,” you whisper back, smiling into the pillow. “You’re warm.”

He chuckles softly, the sound vibrating against your spine as he leans in to kiss your shoulder. “You married a walking furnace, I warned you.”

You laugh quietly, and for a moment, the world feels entirely still—just the two of you, tangled up in quiet sunlight and the sheets from last night. Your legs brush his under the covers, bare skin against bare skin, and he slips his arm tighter around you.

“Did you sleep?” you ask, craning your neck just enough to see his face.

His eyes meet yours, soft and still a bit sleepy. “Eventually. Had to keep checking you were real.”

You blush a little, and his smile grows. He leans in, nudging your nose with his. “Mrs. Riley,” he teases gently.

“Sounds weird,” you murmur, though your smile is as wide as his.

“Sounds perfect,” he says, and he kisses you then—slow, sure, tender. Like he’s promising a thousand mornings like this.