Her chest rises and falls in time with my heart. Too fast, and yet not fast enough to catch up with the wild torrent of desire sparking across my flesh.
“How are you so perfect?” she asks, staring up at the pretty pink canopy covering the pretty pink bed we lie in. “How do you keep getting better?”
“How areyouso perfect?” I counter, letting my eyes traverse the star-speckled skin of her cheek. “How doyoukeep getting better?”
She has no answer, and neither do I. Some things just are what they are.
Silence falls between us until our hearts and lungs fall back under our control and the static on my skin has shifted to an undercurrent instead of a pulsing electric zing. The gauzy pink fabric above us sways in the breeze coming through the open window, and I wonder what Sarelia thinks of it. Does she like this room that I’ve spent years of my life working to hone for the day that I would finally bring her to be with me? Is it pink enough? Is ittoopink?
My eyes flash across the extent of pink-ness I’ve gifted her as I pull up in my mind the bedroom that she lived in at her parents’ house. Comparing the two, her room here blows her room there out of the water. In pinks, yes, but also in comfort, in space, and inthought. Sarelia’s room at home is a mishmash of life-less, cheap furniture, nostalgic memorabilia from her life as she’s grown, CinnaRoll47426 merchandise from every line I’ve ever put out, and do-it-yourself fan art she’s created in her free time.
In her old life, she was stuffed into a room that could barely fit her desk, her bed, and her dresser. She’d piled things ceiling high on whatever surfaces she could make use of. Her walls were a testament to her dedication to showcaseeverythingshe found important.
When designing her room here, I kept these things in mind.
First and foremost, I wanted her to havespace. Which is why I moved into what was once a guest room in favor of giving her the primary bedroom. A princess should not live in a tin can.
After space, I prioritized her physical comfort, then the comfort of her soul. Her bed is the largest, prettiest, softest, comfortablest princess bed money could buy. Made of cherry wood and fairytale dreams, its four wooden posts go nearly to the ceiling, with bars across to hold her canopy. Her dresser, likewise, stands tall, with long legs lifting it from the ground so that she does not have to strain when she bends to open the drawers. The wood of both pieces of furniture boast carvings done by my own hands, curated with Sarelia in mind.
Her desk showcases my carvings as well, tucked neatly below the window which looks over the backyard, the better for her to view me as she works should I wander out. Her chair, sadly, contains no carvings, but it does not contain less thought. I spared no expense, updating the top-of-the-line ergonomic deskchair every time a new best chair was released in the years before she arrived.
The chair is, of course, pink.
And the walls? Pink.
The carved cherry wood? Stained pink.
The soft-as-a-cloud bedding? Pink.
Pink, pink, pink, just like her room at home, but more and better and not at all something she would dislike, so why am I entertaining such thoughts?
Because the distress is almost as delicious as her blush, and the anxiety might just be as sweet as her lips.
“What do we do now?” she whispers, and my eyes break from the carvings of amphibians and flowers on her bedpost to land on her instead. Her gaze collides with mine, then skitters away. “Now that we’re married?”
More of what we’ve been doing, I would hope, but I know that’s not what she means.
“Now we get to know each other,” I answer. “Proximity means that we will find the parts of one another that we haven’t been able to see. We can learn so much more now—appreciate so much more. So we observe, then instead of speculating alone on the others’ thoughts and motivations, we cantalkabout them.” Communication is the key to any healthy relationship, after all. And the unhealthy ones, too, thank all.
“We get to know each other,” she echoes, wonder coating her gentle whisper.
“And make goals,” I add. “Couples are always making goals. We’ll do that.”
A cute little line appears between her brows. “What sort of goals?”
Hm. “Well, I know my personal goals for this relationship. Perhaps you can think of some on your own as well, then we can have a family meeting to discuss and plan.”
Her lashes graze her cheeks one, two, three times. “You’re giving me homework.”
I smile, sliding a hand across the bed to tangle my pinkie finger with hers. “You love homework.”
Her skin warms, and I know I’m right. “Which brings us to an opportunity to enact the first part of our plan! I know that you love homework because I’ve seen your eyes light up at an assignment or a deadline, but I don’t knowwhyyou love these things.” I roll to my side and prop myself up on my elbow, careful not to disengage our pinkies as I lean into her, a moth drawn to a blushing flame.
She shrugs, peeking at me out of the corner of her eye as she replies, open, honest, and immediate, “I like having a finishable task with a clear end date. Something I can check off of a list, or something I can split into smaller parts so I can checkthemoff of a list. I like the small hits of dopamine it gives me, and I like the sense of accomplishment I feel when I look at something and know that I’ve done it. I’ve finished the Thing, and now I can move on to other Things to get more feel-good chemicals.”
Huh. Fascinating. And highly unrelatable. “I don’t think I’ve ever checked a single thing off of a list in my life.”
She snorts, then giggles. “I always imagined you would be the type to make a list and immediately lose it.”
