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I hold him tight, my hands clinging to his back, desperately wanting to say so much, but also knowing that no words are needed. I can feel in the way he holds me that he needs me as much as I need him.
I run my hand up, sliding it through his hair and letting it fall down his back.
“We should have some breakfast,” I whisper, my lips softly nuzzling his neck.
He lifts his head, his hand mimicking the motion of mine as it slides through his hair, ruffling it more than it already was. “We’ll have to go into the village for food.”
“We should do that,” I mutter.
“Mmm, in a minute,” he mumbles, pulling me back in for another kiss.
I smile, my mouth lingering on his for a long moment before a hungry rumble from my stomach interrupts the air.
His mouth widens into a smile. “Alright, let’s go.”
I jump down from the counter, resisting the urge to run my hand over the obvious arousal showing through the soft fabric of his joggers. Instead, I force myself to focus, and we put on our shoes and coats and step out of the house.
The morning air is frosty, the sky still and quiet. Snow crunches beneath our feet, each step leaving deep footprints as we make our way to the car. Marcus brushes off the powdery snow with his arm, shimmery clouds of white flying off the hood.
I climb in, the leather seats ice cold even through my jeans, and Marcus breathes on his hands, rubbing them together. Once the engine has warmed up, he carefully turns around in the drive and we head down the path back in the direction of the town.
I glance at the time on the car dash – 9:05am - and realise I haven’t even checked my phone all morning.
Before long, we pass a small convenience store at the edge of the village, a single car parked outside.
We walk in, mouthing a silent hello to a young girl standing at the till who looks like she would rather be literally anywhere else than here.
I follow Marcus down the aisles as he picks up coffee, bacon, bread, butter and eggs. When he reaches for a carton of oat milk without even pausing, a heartwarming joy unfurls in my chest. It’s such a small thing, but it feels enormous.
“Hope you like a fry up,” he says.
“And he cooks?” I tease, feeling my heart expand ever further at the thought of him cooking us breakfast.
“Baby, you ain’t seen nothing yet,” he smirks, giving me a quick kiss on the cheek as he puts the items down on the counter. I pray that the cold is a good enough explanation for why my face has turned a bright shade of red.
We get back to the house and Marcus heads straight to the kitchen and puts the kettle on. I grab the bag containing all my clothes and make-up, and head up the stairs, in desperate need of a shower.
The hot water rushes over me as thoughts swirl around my head like a tornado. The body on the ground. Chris at my door. The reflection of the streetlamp on the knife. My flat back in Manchester.
A knot forms in the pit of my stomach, making me feel queasy, but I take a deep breath, letting the steam fill my lungs as water runs down my face, and I force myself to push it aside and focus on the moment.
Instead, I think about the tub in the bedroom, and my mouth breaks into a smile again. I shush the voice in the back of my head telling me this is all too good to be true.
Quickly changing into jeans and a soft green t-shirt, I leave my hair hanging down in damp tussled waves as the smell of bacon wafting up the stairs calls my name.
Back downstairs, the sight of Marcus in the kitchen with a frying pan makes my heart stumble. I feel like I’ve won the fucking lottery, being here with him, witnessing these quiet, ordinary moments that to me are beyond extraordinary. Even just watching him cook feels intimate after two long years of dreaming about him from a distance.
And for a fleeting second, it feels like this isn’t my life. Like I’ve been picked up and transported into someone else’s life. Someone who happens to be married to this beautiful man, spending a romantic snow-dusted weekend in a magical cottage, probably with three angelic children still happily asleep in their beds.
But then he looks at me, his eyes warm, and suddenly, itisreal. Okay, maybe not the married with children part (yet!), but I’m me. And he’s here, actually looking atme,and I am the luckiest girl in the whole fucking world.
“That smells amazing,” I say, running my hand across his back as I walk past.
“Have a seat.” He gestures towards the kitchen island where I hadn’t even noticed two plates already laid out, with two steaming cups of coffee. I smile and sit down as Marcus transfers two slices of bacon and two eggs from the frying pan onto the plates at the same exact time the toaster pops. He quickly butters the toast and adds it to our plates, sitting down beside me.
“Thank you,” I say, the aromas of the food causing my stomach to grumble loudly. “I can’t believe you did all this.”
“No problem,” he says, jabbing a fork into his bacon and taking a crispy bite.