People say marriage becomes Boring with time.
But every morning I wake up, I realize it's still the first line of my favorite poem—written just for me, just for us.
The sun slipped through the creamy palace curtains in soft golden ribbons, settling warmly on Zayn's skin. Even asleep, he had the quiet authority of a prince—the kind that didn't need to speak to be felt.
My prince.
My husband.
My peace.
Zayn's arm was already draped over my waist, as if his body had memorized mine long before consciousness arrived. His breath was warm against my shoulder, steady, gentle… grounding.
He shifted, half-awake, fingers tracing my side lazily.
"Good morning, Maya," he murmured, voice rough in the sweetest way. "Stay. Just a little more."
I smiled into the sheets. "You say that every morning, Your Highness."
"Then obey your king," he whispered, tugging me even closer.
His words were playful, but his touch was tender—soft enough to melt every wall I ever held up in my life.
I turned to face him, brushing my fingers over the gold royal crest pinned lightly to the sleeve of his sleep robe. He always wore something bearing the Montclair emblem. A habit from years of training. A reminder of duty. A reminder of who he was long before he became mine.
"And yet," I teased, "the king needs cuddles to wake up."
Zayn opened his eyes then—those storm-grey eyes that always looked like they were hiding a secret, a softness meant only for me.
"I don't need cuddles," he said softly. "I need you."
God.
Every time he said things like that, I felt warmth spread through my chest.
We stayed tangled like that longer than necessary, listening to the quiet hum of the palace waking up around us—guards shifting, staff preparing breakfast, faraway footsteps echoing through marble corridors. But in our room, life moved slower, peace lingered longer.
Eventually, we dragged ourselves to the small breakfast parlor attached to our suite. The palace had dozens of dining rooms, but this one… Zayn kept it for us. Just us.
No guards.
No formality.
No royalty.
Just our little world.
I tried flipping pancakes—burned two, almost set the butter on fire, and dropped a spoon that echoed too dramatically against the marble floor.
Zayn laughed, stepping behind me and wrapping his arms around my waist. "My talented wife," he teased.
"You're making fun of me."
"Never," he said, kissing my cheek. "I married you for your charm, not your cooking."
I elbowed him gently. "You mean you married me because I never let you win an argument."
"That too," he said with a grin.
The golden morning light bathed us, warming our skin, reflecting off the steam rising from our mismatched breakfast plates. It wasn't perfect. But it was ours.
As I sat opposite him, watching the love of my life sip his coffee like the world could wait until he was done enjoying this moment, something in me whispered:
This is the kind of love people pray for.
Soft.
Steady.
Safe.
Royal only in name, but deeply human in the way it held me.
I reached for his hand. He met me halfway.
"Zayn," I said quietly, "I could live like this forever."
He squeezed my fingers, eyes locking with mine—serious now, sincere.
"Forever starts every morning, Maya," he said. "And I'll love you through every one of them."
And right there—in that small, golden room, with burnt pancakes and soft touches—I knew:
Home wasn't the palace.
Home was him.
My prince.
My love.
My Morning of Us.