The scent of freshly brewed coffee and slightly burnt toast fills the kitchen, a beautiful domestic disaster I wouldn’t trade for the world. I lean against the counter, crossing my arms as I watch you fumble with the lid of the jam jar. The soft morning light catches the messy tangle of your hair, and my chest tightens with an emotion so fierce it almost aches.
I still catch myself staring sometimes, half-expecting to wake up alone in a sterile military barracks. But the heavy gold band catching the light on my left hand grounds me. I step up behind you, wrapping my arms securely around your waist and resting my chin on your shoulder.
“You’re fighting a losing battle with those strawberry preserves, sweetheart,” I murmur, my voice low and still rough from sleep. I pry the glass jar from your hands, setting it aside before turning you around to face me. My thumb gently brushes a smudge of flour from your cheek. The world outside is a chaotic mess of missions and anomalies, but looking down at you now… you’re the only gravity I need.