The first thing Amara Bennett felt was sunlight low and golden, a slow warmth pressing through her eyelids. She drifted there for a while, balanced on the thin edge between dreaming and waking, where time stretched and softened until it barely held shape. The silk sheets whispered against her legs, cool and heavy in their familiar way, the faint scent of last night's lavender still clinging to them.
Her hand reached across the bed, searching, and met a quiet heat.
Elijah.
He was already awake, propped against the headboard with a book resting on his knees. His glasses sat slightly crooked on the bridge of his nose, and a half-smile touched the corners of his mouth as he turned a page.
"You're awake," he said, voice still rough with morning.
"Mmm." She blinked slowly as the light pulled her toward full awareness. "You should've woken me. I like watching you read."
He closed the book with a soft thud and slipped a finger inside to keep his place. "It's our anniversary. I wanted you to sleep."
Amara rolled closer until her head found the warm hollow beneath his arm. The cotton of his T-shirt smelled faintly of soap and something uniquely him. "I like starting the day together," she murmured. "Feels like we're soaking it all in."
He chuckled, a low, steady sound that matched the hush of the room. His heart beat a slow, sure rhythm beneath her cheek. The world outside might have been miles away: no ringing phones, no schedules, only the faint sigh of the house as it settled in the morning sun.
Golden light slid across the sheets, catching the curve of his jaw, the dark curl of hair at his temple. Thirteen years, she thought, and still this simple act lying here, skin to skin, the rise and fall of his chest, felt like the truest part of her life.
Thirteen years. The number hovered in her mind, almost foreign. People like them, patched together from mismatched histories, weren't supposed to last this long. They had been two broken things when they met, jagged edges that somehow fit.
Memory tugged her backward: a rain-soaked Tuesday, the hospital corridor bright and cold, smelling of antiseptic and sorrow. She had been shaking so hard her teeth ached, her shoes squeaking on the tile, palms smudged with regret she could hardly name. Elijah had been the doctor on call. He hadn't offered advice or empty comfort, only a blanket draped over her shoulders, a steady presence beside her until her breathing matched the calm of his own. No flirtation. No sudden spark. Just quiet company that lodged itself in her chest and refused to leave.
The years that followed were not tidy. Therapists who nodded and scribbled. Weeks of silence that weren't quite anger but something heavier. Several miscarriages that left rooms too quiet to bear. They rebuilt anyway, not with grand declarations but with small, stubborn gestures: a glance across a grocery aisle, a hand squeezed in traffic, a private joke whispered at midnight. They learned the shape of endurance together.
Now Milo, their aging retriever, stirred in the corner, toenails ticking softly against the floorboards. Amara traced the line of Elijah's collarbone with her fingertips, the skin warm beneath her touch.
"Coffee?" he asked, his voice a rumble in her ear.
"With cinnamon," she said.
"Always." He pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead before sliding from the bed.
The room exhaled into silence. She lay back for a moment, letting the emptiness settle around her, then stretched until her toes brushed the cool edge of the mattress. The hardwood floor greeted her bare feet with a quiet heat. Morning pooled against the windows, bright but not harsh.
At the wardrobe she paused, fingers gliding along the hanging fabrics soft cottons, muted silks, the quiet history of their life stitched into seams and hems. Her hand stopped on a white silk dress embroidered with tiny flowers along the hem, Elijah's gift from three anniversaries ago, worn only once. She lifted it from the hanger and held it against herself. 'It still fits'. The thought carried a small, unexpected comfort.
She fastened her mother's pearl earrings, the tiny studs catching the light, and dabbed a touch of vanilla perfume at the hollow of her neck. In the mirror she studied the woman staring back