Forelithe, SR 1426

He woke to shifting pressure at his side, and for a moment did not realise that he was in fact, in his own bed. He took one deep breath, and then another, and as he went on breathing, the breaths became easier to take. He reached out, and found a hand lying warm among the covers, and he threaded his fingers with it, and pressed it tight.

He smiled, for he had not smiled yet, since waking. A soft kiss was pressed to his cheek, and then another to his mouth, and he turned his head, tilted it, reached out with his free hand, tangled those fingers in loose curls, and kissed that mouth again.

It was not the first that he had kissed her, ever: that had happened two years prior, at a most remarkable Yule. But there were some things that could only happen once, such as your wedding, or your wedding night, or the morning that came after your wedding night, when you found yourself safe and warm, and not any darkness in the world could reach you.

Then from those thoughts, there came a soft laugh, warm as melted icing, and assuredly just as well. 'Good-morning, Mr. Burrows,' his Celandine said, and Moro opened his eyes to look at her, and smiled more widely. He took in the sight of her, for this truly was a first, to wake up in the bed that was their own, to take in the sight of his Celandine – not his intended, anymore, but his wife, blood and bond. Her honey-dark curls were mussed, her cheeks faintly pink, and her eyes were all but glowing, and glowing more brightly, for all she smiled.

'Good morning, Mrs. Burrows,' he said in turn, and pushed himself up on one elbow, even as his knee gave a bad pang and he found himself regretting that movement, and should likely have gone back to lying flat on his back. But he did not, for he would not let that ruin this moment – he would take his tea, later, and so then, that was that. Then Moro slid his hand to the nape of her neck, and kissed Celandine once more – Celandine, his love, his wife, and of course he considered this the happiest moment of his life.

'How did you sleep?' he asked her, once he could, knowing his grin to be mischievous as he did. She laughed again, pressed that and her mouth against his, hungry for his kisses now, now that they were freest to take and give.

'Did I even sleep at all?' Her eyes sparked with their own mischief, and she cradled his face gently, as he came fully to a sitting position. 'Oh, my Moro – I love you,' she said, and her grin softened to another smile; she kissed him once, deeply, and then again, as light as spring rain. 'I'm pleasantly sore in places I had not ever known could be so pleasantly sore. We must do that all again, as soon as is possible.' Her cheeks darkened, but she was grinning again, and she threaded one hand in his curls, and brought her mouth back to his.

'But breakfast,' he protested, though it was a half-hearted protest, before her mouth touched his – and he was far more interested in her mouth, and her kisses, and that thing she was now doing with her hand. 'Most assuredly, my love, you must be – ah,' he gave a sharp gasp, 'you must be hungry, after all that?'

'My stomach shall wait,' she said, sliding one leg over his, settling herself over his lap, warm and glowing, all over. 'That is, if yours is willing, too.'

'Oh,' his voice husked, and he brought arm hand about her, pressed his hand at her side, his stomach forgotten, and the pain in his knee forgotten, too. 'If most assuredly is willing. Good-morning, again, Mrs. Burrows.'

And she grinned as she kissed him, saying, 'Good-morning, Mr. Burrows,' and their stomachs most certainly did end up having to wait.