Another Morning

You wake to the pale light coming through the curtains, the weight of his arm still around your waist. For a few seconds, you just lie there, listening to the muffled quiet of the house, the faint hum of the boiler, the birds outside.

When you shift slightly, his hand tightens instinctively. He’s not fully awake yet, but his body is warm against yours. You kiss his chest lightly, then ease out from under his arm so you don’t wake him.

Downstairs, in the kitchen, you put the kettle on and pull out mugs. The kids come down one by one, hair sticking up, asking about breakfast. The day slips into its usual rhythm — toast, packed lunches, school bags by the door.

Tom comes down just as you’re loading the dishwasher. He looks relaxed, hair messy, that slight smile still lingering from last night. He kisses your cheek before grabbing his tea, a small gesture that feels warmer than it has in weeks.

The rest of the day passes in fragments, errands, laundry, a walk in the park, and a bit of shopping.

By evening, the house feels calmer. Dinner’s done, dishes stacked, the kids upstairs watching something on the tablet before bed. You’re both in the kitchen, the warm hum of the oven and the clink of glasses filling the space.

He leans against the counter, watching you as you wipe down the table. “It’s nice… just us,” he says, voice low.

You look up at him, catching the same steady gaze from last night. “Yeah. It is.”