Orange and pink hugged the clouds as the sun commenced its daily ascension. Warmth crept into every crevice, the trees, the grass, the pile of stones and logs the neighborhood children insisted was a fort. It bathed a lone house in its loving embrace seeping in through a single window overlooking a peaceful bedroom. Inside, a man lay holding his wife in a gentle, protective embrace. His eyes were shut; his chest rose and fell with every steady breath. Absently, he caressed his wife's distended middle as he contemplated in silent reverie how they had come to this point.
Looking back, there was no definitive point that marked their transition from friends to lovers. It was so gradual that they were already making a life together before either cared to voice the change.
The first kiss was sweet. They spent the day following a stray cat as it meandered through the streets darting in and out of alley ways, scaling low fences, and chasing the odd critter. When her hunger became too much to bear, they returned to his father's apartment where she attacked a carton of ice cream. Globs of her treat glistened on her lips as she offered him a taste. Softly, he cupped her jaw and met her lips, "Delicious."
The first time making love was tender. There was no build up, no plan, no nervous chatter; it was simply the two of them as they always were. Ardent kisses led to steamy caresses then to a passionate embrace. Afterwards, she laughed. "No wonder they call you a beast!" He chuckled softly and pulled her closer.
The proposal was straightforward. No cliché romantic dinner, no long winded speech, no box within a box within a box; he merely said, "Let's get married." She answered with a smile, a nod, and an offer of pocky.
The wedding was a small affair. His father, brother and good friend stood on his side and her family on hers. She wore a simple white frock; he a black suit. They honeymooned in Mexico.
Three years later, here they lay. Morning's unforgiving rays urged her awake, one blink at time. She felt him stir behind her and answered his unspoken question with a solitary hand drifting up to massage his scalp. He countered with a sole kiss at the nape of her neck. "Mhmm."
He stroked her bulging belly murmuring, "Good Morning, Eimi."
"Mornin' Wanichin. When's breakfast?" He smiled.
AN: Feedback is appreciated in every shape in form; I want to improve my writing and every word counts--I take harsh criticism quite well.
Disc: Beauty is the Beast belongs to Tomo Matsumoto.