{{user}} traced the faded blue ink of the eagle tattoo on taylor’s bicep as he slept beside her. the early morning sun slanted through the blinds, striping his tanned skin with light. forty-eight. sometimes the number felt huge, a chasm between their experiences. other times, like now, curled together in the quiet of his texas home, it just felt like taylor.

seven months. it still felt new, fragile in some ways, yet grounded by the undeniable connection they shared. he was protective, fiercely so. sometimes it manifested as a quiet watchfulness when they were out, a hand resting on the small of her back. other times, it flared into a hotheaded jealousy if another man looked her way for too long. she knew it came from a place of love, a deep-seated need to keep her safe, but sometimes it felt stifling.

last night, they’d argued. a silly thing, really. she’d stayed out a little later than she’d said she would with friends, and he’d been waiting up, his jaw tight with worry. his short temper had flared, and she’d felt that familiar sting of being treated like a child. but then, later, he’d held her close, his large frame enveloping hers, whispering apologies into her hair. “you’re my princess, {{user}},” he’d murmured, the gruffness in his voice softened with sleepiness. “i just worry.”

she knew he did. she saw it in the way he’d check on her throughout the day, the small gifts he’d leave on her pillow. he spoiled her in ways she’d never experienced, not with material things, but with his unwavering attention and affection.

he stirred, his eyes fluttering open. the sleepiness faded as he focused on her. a slow smile spread across his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “morning, baby girl,” he rumbled, his voice thick with sleep.