The Morning Commotion

Lorraine felt his warm breath warming her hair, and just like that, she collapsed. All her arguments. All her traditions. All her second-guessing. Gone.

There was only the quiet sound of his breath, the familiar warmth of his body, and the familiar, sacred hush between them.

He carried her to the bed, still holding her like something delicate. He lay down beside her without letting go after throwing her robe away.

She didn't resist. She didn't want to. She pressed her face into the curve of his neck, arms wrapped around him like a child with a secret. There, in the shadow of his body, was the first peace she had felt in years.

After her mother, no one had ever held her like this. Not as Lorraine, the woman. Only he did. Only he could, as her husband.

Once, he did, without knowing who she was, when she was just the discarded daughter of a broken house.