By early-September, they are back home from their honeymoon, deliriously happy and relaxed, beaming at and laughing with each other every second of the day they get to spend together, as though theyâre caught in a constant honeymoon period (and, god, they are).  Her love for him is suddenly on fire, and now more than ever, she canât seem to keep her hands off of him, touching and kissing and smooching him all over every chance she gets, getting all pouty and miserable every morning he has to leave her to go to work, counting down the hours until heâs home safe and grinning that sweet smile of his that sets her pulse racing, makes her feel whole again; she still canât believe theyâre marriedâ that heâs her husband now, and forever, and every time she thinks about it, she squeals in delight, pretty little face crinkling with sweet laughter, heart all tight and swollen with so much love and joy, she overflows with it, loses her breath at every little kiss and touch of his. Life has honestly never felt happier or fuller for her, and she spends her days in a dreamy haze, dotting on him, warmly, lovingly, their house always warm and clean and smelling of honey and the sweet herbs she grows in their kitchen; she spends the afternoons tending to the garden outback, growing radishes and sweet potatoes, happy and excited to be making their house a home for their very first fall together as a married coupleâ spending the evenings chasing fireflies in the fields out front and eating tangerines and figs on the front porch while the sun sets, dipping toward him in an oversized hoodie over her sundress, catching his mouth, slick, slow, stealing a million kisses, breathing him in, giggly and joyful and adoring, keeping close to himâitâs easy, being his wifeâshe thinks; it feels rightânatural--like she was put on this earth to do just that; it makes her feel invincible, safe. Like everything in the world is right. Itâs the best thing sheâs ever done, and she doesnât think sheâll ever get over the pure, unbridled perfection of itâof being able to call herself his wife, for life, or the wild, raw feeling of absolute happiness it sends through her heart every time she thinks about it or somebody calls her Mrs. Lancaster, or even, when she catches a glimpse of their wedding pictures, framed and dappled in sunlight in their living room. Â
Itâs quiet now, a lazy Sunday evening. The only sound is the rain hitting the roof and the pane of the half-open window, a cool breeze pouring through the lace of the curtain, tickling their skin. Itâs peaceful, and sheâs comfortable â all nestled close to him, craving warmth and affection. Theyâre napping on their bed, and sheâs draped loosely around his back with her chin resting on his shoulder, the silk of her dress all warm and sleek against his skin. Her fingertips skate down his bare arms, slow and slight, electric with subtle affections, and she breathes out gently through her nose prior to pressing her lips to the junction of his neck and shoulder. The kiss is soft and sweet, and she drags her lips in slow, doting kisses along the incline of the back of his neck, murmuring a loving little âheeeeyâyou awake?â her voice sweet and melodic, not wanting to wake him up if heâs still dozing off. Outside, it continues to rain, and for several long minutes, she forgets that anything in the world but him exists, her heart racing.
âevery since they returned back home and had to get back into their day to day life and routine the least fun part of his day has been having to leave her side and the warmth of their little nest; for long hours every day, usually by early morning through the evening. and it was well before they got married that he kind of disliked that; he wanted to be able to spend more time with her. never wishing to part from her side and never once feeling tired or sick of being in her presence. being with her has never been routinely with a negative meaning, on the contrary, it has always felt comfortable and easy, like a feeling of being home but expect it's a person you connect it with. a feeling of security and safety, but in an emotional, psychological way. and he has always felt like that with her every since he met her. even more so that he gets to call her his wife. his, alone. for now and for life. though he got to hoard her after their wedding, for a good long time, it was not enough. if he could, he would be with her all of the time until she would get sick of him (which is highly unlikely; especially now that they are still in the after wedding haze, filled to the brim with all the excitement and the sweet, lingering taste of their wedding day). and thus, he enjoys evenings where he gets to spend them with her, when he doesn't work or is off early. even when they are just dozing off together, all tangled in one another in their bed and sleeping through the golden hour of the day.
he shifts slightly when her lips press against his skin, warm and loving. a smile forms on his lips at the sound of her voice, even when he is still not fully awake yet, but in the between. still drenched with sleep. he hums, shifting in place a little, looking at her over his shoulder and reaching to take one of her hands into his. pressing soft little kisses across her knuckles, still in a sleepy haze (to which the sound of the rain aids a great deal). and soon he takes a gentle hold of both of her hands, pulling her to him and holding them against his chest. nestling comfortably against her with her all over his back. a smirk tagging on the corner of his lips. he loves this feeling of domesticity with her; this level of comfort that has always come naturally with her. and the fact that he gets to be calling her his wife for the rest of their lives. "does my baby seek attention...?" he questions in a sleepy, husky voice, his tone overly playful and upbeat, still holding her hands to his chest, unwilling to be letting go anytime soon, too keen in the feeling of closeness and ease.
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