“Is it bad that we’re spending our honeymoon mostly in our bedroom hotel?” I ask Asher as I turn to him. I’ve woken up from yet another nap. It’s hard not to doze off after a mind-blowing orgasm, especially when we’ve got no plans. But I’m feeling a bit weird spending so much time here.
He turns to face me. There’s that caring expression of his that I know it’s reserved just for me. He caresses my face.
“What are you talking about? We’ve been going out every day and visiting a bunch of stuff on the continent.”
“I feel we should make the most out of your time.”
“We do. Let us be boring and happy. Don’t worry about what you ‘should’ do. Worry instead of what you want to do.”
He keeps reminding me of that and I’m better at it. He has taught me so much about the power of standing still, but it’s hard not to go back to old patterns, to feeling like I should be fun, especially when I’m somewhere new. He tucks a small strand of hair behind my ear, and then asks, “do you want to go out?”
“No,” I confess. He makes me feel okay about wanting to just be.
I kiss him, happy to have married him. “Dear husband, I want to watch a movie and then go watch the sunset at that fancy restaurant you know the owner of.”
Asher grins, that smile that still disarms me every time spreading across his face. “Then that’s exactly what we’ll do.”
He stretches his arm out and grabs the remote from the nightstand, his other arm curling around me so I’m tucked into his chest like a puzzle piece. “Pick the movie, wife.”
“I get full control?” I tease, tilting my head up to look at him.
“Absolute power. But if it’s a three-hour period drama, I’m going to need popcorn and emotional support.”
I laugh, scrolling through the options. “I’ll keep it under two hours. Maybe. No promises.”
We end up picking a cheesy rom-com, the type of movie that has always brought me some comfort. I smile. He never thinks I’m boring even if I always end up choosing the same kind of movies.
After the movie, we get ready for dinner. I’m wearing a flowy sundress, one that I bought specifically to wear on our honeymoon, and he wears a crisp white shirt. It’s still weird to see him wearing something other than a flannel shirt, but it does suit him. He slips his hand into mine as we walk to the restaurant, his thumb brushing against mine with every step.
Asher pulls my chair out for me and a waiter greets us with a flute of champagne. Asher knowing so many people because of his farm certainly has a lot of advantages.
“To being boring and blissfully happy,” he says, raising his glass.
I clink mine against his. “To my favorite kind of honeymoon.”