Chapter Twenty-Five - Sunday Mornings Forever

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Sunday Mornings Forever

NO ALARMS.
NO rush.

Just the light creeping in through half-closed blinds, and the sound of her breath deep and steady beside me.

Sunday mornings in our house weren’t about routines.
They were about rhythm.

The rhythm of warm coffee in chipped mugs.
Of socks sliding across the kitchen floor.
Of sleepy kisses that tasted like cinnamon and sleep.

I’d wake up first sometimes.
Just to watch her sleep.
Messy hair. Legs tangled in the blanket.
Face soft, like life hadn’t touched her yet that day.

And when she stirred?
She always reached for me first.
Half-conscious, fingers outstretched, like she was just making sure I was still there.

Always.

We didn’t talk much right away.
The first hour was sacred.

We’d sit on the couch in silence, legs over each other’s, sharing a blanket like a treaty.

Sometimes she’d read.
Sometimes I’d sketch.
Sometimes we’d just stare out the window and make up backstories for the neighbors.

She always made breakfast like it was a love language.
Waffles.
Or pancakes.
Or eggs that somehow tasted better just because she made them.

I’d do the dishes.
Terribly.
She’d follow behind and do them again.

But she’d never complain.
Because I tried.
And that was enough.

Some Sundays, we didn’t leave the bed until 2 PM.
We’d talk about nothing and everything.
Our dreams, our future, whether or not ghosts have favorite furniture.

We’d play that dumb game:
“Would you still love me if I was a worm?”

She always said yes.
I always asked why.

And every now and then, I’d stop mid-sentence.
Just to look at her.

And she’d raise an eyebrow like, “What?”

And I’d say, “I don’t ever want this to end.”

And she’d smile, soft and knowing, like someone who already decided it wouldn’t.

Sunday mornings weren’t spectacular.
They weren’t loud.
They were real.

They were ours.