She didn't let me go back to sleep. Not that I was complaining.
Somehow, after all her chatter and interruptions, we ended up having breakfast together. She'd taken over the kitchen—again—and somehow managed to make something that looked like it belonged in a fancy café rather than in my apartment. French toast stacked neatly with whipped cream and strawberries, a drizzle of honey, and a mug of hot chocolate with cinnamon on top.
Typical Val. Even her "simple breakfasts" came with presentation.
It was peaceful, quiet except for the soft clink of cutlery and the low hum of the morning. For a second, I thought maybe—just maybe—we were going to have a normal day. But this was Val. There was always a mix of love and chaos baked into everything she did.
She swallowed a bite and leaned forward, fork in hand.
"So, husband," she began, with that faux-serious tone that always meant trouble, "why are there no decorations?"
I blinked, halfway through a sip of my drink. "Uh?"
