The morning after our anniversary was a beautiful, chaotic, perfect mess. I woke to the soft, gentle, beautiful touch of Emma's lips on mine, a slow, deep, passionate kiss that was a continuation of the love, the gratitude, the sheer, unadulterated, beautiful joy that had filled our small, cozy, beautiful flat the night before.
Her fiery red hair tumbled across my chest, her green eyes sparkling with a mischievous, beautiful light as she pulled back and smiled.
"Good morning, Mr. Walsh," she whispered, her voice a soft, warm, beautiful melody. The sun was streaming through the window, the city was a distant, muffled hum, and for a moment, just a moment, everything was perfect.
