No clothes—only bare, pure features—twisted together in the crinkled bedsheets. Early morning sun pours through lace curtains, casting eesome frames of the married lovers across the walls.
The cold of the second week of January slithers away, leaving the world a gentle day.
Each moment, they are for every version of themselves. Every breath is drawn in the other's name.
Moonstruck in love—insatiable.
Can't part, even for a beat of the heart.
Neva squirms in bed, sore from sleeping on her sides. She twists her weary body onto her back. The heat of the late morning sun slowly warms her, and she opens her dewy eyes.
A heavy arm is wrapped around her bare waist. She glances at the man dreaming beside her—so serene. Beautiful features, soothing to the heart—sleeping sweetly now, in complete contrast to the toe-curling behaviour of his from the night before.
Glimpses of those hours flush her cheeks crimson. Awake and radiant in the morning light, she quickly averts her gaze. She can never quite grow used to the morning-after sights of him.
He's a storm, and yet, a further peace to her heart.
A protector. A provider. A leader.
A house-band.
This page of her life feels written by fate—stitched with apocalypses of nightmares and tranquilled dreams.
She cannot lace her fingers through the dark clouds she's brought with her, nor erase the tragedy shadowing her joy.
Yet here she is—the wife of the man tangled with her beneath warm duvets and twisted sheets.
Sometimes, she wonders—does her aunt think of her? Does her uncle search for her still?
The ache burns sharper in the good moments. She never gathered the courage to tell them about Rhett…
And now—he's her husband.
She couldn't even share the sacred delight of her matrimony.
Tomorrow, they will have been married for a week.
Her aunt and uncle are kind and loving—tender beyond measure—but far too protective of her.
She's thought about it often, between half-hearted phone calls and daydreams of their reactions, if she ever told them about Rhett. But the courage never fully came.
So she decided, back then, that she'd introduce her fiancé in person.
Face to face.
Even if the fear lingered—of them not accepting the relationship, or worse, judging her too young to choose for herself.
She was terrified they might try to take away her freedom.
She sighs. It's her life, and she knows she could stand her ground if she must.
But still, the anxious thoughts gnaw at her—because they raised her. They loved her first.
Her wrenching thoughts scatter when fingers graze her chin. Her gaze drifts to him, now roused and gleaming.
"What kind of thoughts took you so far away from me?" he asks, voice hoarse and cavernous.
Her lips curl faintly at the corners. "Nothing you should worry about."
And in a single breath, he hovers over her—kissing, nibbling, stealing her blossom lips—tongues twirling, breath hitching.
His touches, his caresses—they fog her mind with heat and schemes. She plants her hands on his chest, firm and sculpted, and presses him away.
Heavy breaths linger between them.
Neva swallows hers.
And in a blink, Rhett dives for her lips again. She groans and shoves the pitiful man off once more.
"Why?" he almost whines.
Neva glares. "I don't plan to spend the whole day in bed."
Her stern gaze melts him instantly.
"Just a quick thirty minutes," he murmurs, kissing her nose and trailing down to her cheek.
"Absolutely not. I'm sore," she whispers the last part, cheeks blooming red.
His smirk fades into worry. "Are you in pain?"
Embarrassed, she bites her bottom lip. "Get off me."
She doesn't answer—just pushes him, her effort light and lacking resolve.
He relents, lying down beside her.
She tries to rise, but his arms pull her hard to his chest.
"Just stay like this for a moment," he mumbles, face buried in the crook of her neck.
She sighs and smiles away her purpose.
"Ten minutes?" Rhett pleads, glossy eyes soft and warm.
Neva side-eyes him suspiciously.
Sly fingers crawl upward, his gaze burning with mischief—gliding from her waist to the soft swell of her bosom, setting every nerve alight. Her body tenses under his touch—straining like a drawn bow, caught between delight and protest.
She traps his roving, shameless hand with her own.
"You're a beast," she breathes, flustered like a rising wave.
She slips away like a wave, leaving the poor husband pouting in confusion as she slides swiftly out of bed.
She grabs a midnight-blue towel from the cabinet and drapes it around herself—all at once—barely blessing his eyes with a glimpse of her gorgeous, naked frame.