The scent of cinnamon clung to the air, a familiar comfort. He found her in the kitchen, humming softly as she stirred something on the stove. Sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the golden rays. He watched her, the curve of her back, the way her hair fell across her shoulder. He reached out, gently touching the small of her back. “Smells wonderful,” he murmured, his voice thick with a feeling he couldn’t name.
Later, curled up on the sofa, he was browsing her tablet. He happened upon a document titled, “The Lighthouse Keeper’s Bride.” Curiosity piqued, he clicked. The first paragraph described a character strikingly similar to himself, his quirks and mannerisms meticulously rendered. He read on, his heart quickening with a warmth that spread through his chest. He grinned, feeling a strange mixture of amusement and something else, something deeper.
He closed the tablet, a wide smile on his face, and walked to find her. He found her in the garden, tending to her roses. He encircled her waist with his arms. “You didn’t tell me you were writing a book about me,” he said, his voice soft. She chuckled and leaned back against him. "It’s not *about* you," she countered. But her smile betrayed her. He kissed her neck, inhaling her scent. "Maybe I'll be the first to read it."