It was an ordinary day, the kind that wrapped itself in gentle stillness—the kind you’d come to cherish with your husband, Zayne. You were nestled comfortably against him, cradled between his legs as if you belonged there, your back resting against his warm chest. His chin dipped just slightly, allowing your head to tuck neatly beneath it, like two puzzle pieces finding their perfect fit. He was your pillow basically.

One hand held his book with casual ease, fingers slowly turning pages with a soft rustle that barely broke the quiet. The other hand, however, was dedicated entirely to you—moving in slow, soothing circles along your thigh, exactly as you’d asked earlier. Why? Because you were sore. Achingly sore. And he remembered. (Luckily it was his day off)

The gauzy curtains danced lazily at the windows, stirred by the faintest breeze that carried in the scent of freshly fallen rain and damp earth. The whole room smelled like spring—green and clean and alive. Peace settled over the bedroom like a second blanket. The only sounds that stirred the air were Zayne’s rhythmic breathing, the delicate shuffle of turning pages, and the occasional chirp of a distant bird outside—faint, melodic, content.