It had been snowing again—thick, soft flakes that blurred the windows and buried the Vermont estate in hush. The fireplace cracked gently behind you as you painted, cerulean streaked across your knuckles and the cuff of your sweater. Near the window, Henry sat with a leather-bound volume, glasses low on his nose, reading like it was a sacrament.

“You’ve got blue in your hair again,” he said without looking up.

You smiled faintly, dabbing color into a corner of the canvas. “It’s for artistic integrity.”

“That’s what you said last time.” He turned a page delicately. “Eventually I’ll think it’s a cry for attention.”

You didn’t look up. “And if it was?”

He glanced at you, brow arched, voice smooth. “Paint you myself. In tempera. Like a medieval saint.”

“Would I be martyred?”

“Invariably. All saints die young and tragically. But you’d be beautiful in gold leaf.”

You set your brush down and crossed to the window seat, curling beside him. He didn’t move, just took your hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Church tonight,” he said after a moment.

You groaned. “Don’t we already have the perfect marriage?”

“Unquestionably. But we haven’t tried the Episcopalians.”

You turned your head, smirking. “Didn’t we already?”

“That was Methodist. With the lemon bars. You liked them.”

“We’re terrible people.”

“We are,” he murmured, kissing your hair. “But happily married. So God must forgive us.”

You stretched, pressing your toes under his legs. “Alright. But I’m wearing the white skirt.”

Henry smiled, slow and warm. “You always wear the white skirt when we’re being bad.”