Some mornings begin in a rush—the blaring of alarms, tangled sheets, hurried footsteps out the door. But then, there are mornings like this. The kind you dream of, the kind that settles into your bones like warmth from the first sip of coffee on a cool day.
The sunlight filters through cream-coloured curtains, painting golden stripes across rumpled sheets. I'm awake, but I keep my eyes closed, savouring the liminal space between dreams and reality. The room feels warm and inviting, bathed in a soft, golden light. I smell fresh coffee and something sweet—pancakes, maybe. My stomach growls softly in response, but I don't move. Not yet. I feel… peaceful. Utterly, wonderfully at peace.
I hear him before I see him—the careful padding of bare feet across hardwood floors, the gentle clink of dishes, a soft curse as he nearly trips. A smile tugs at my lips. For someone who moves with such grace in the world, he becomes endearingly clumsy when trying to be quiet.
"I know you're awake," he whispers, setting something down on the nightstand. "Your nose twitches when you smell food."
I open one eye. "It does not."
"Does too. Like a little rabbit." He demonstrates, scrunching his nose ridiculously, and I can't help but laugh.
He's balancing a tray laden with my favourite breakfast spread—blueberry pancakes drizzled with honey, fresh strawberries arranged in a heart shape, steaming coffee in the mismatched mugs we bought at that tiny thrift store upstate. There's even a small vase with a single wildflower he must have picked from the garden.
"What's the occasion?" I ask, sitting up against the pillows.
He shrugs, setting the tray carefully across my lap. "Tuesday."
"Just Tuesday?"
"Every day with you is worth celebrating." He says it so matter-of-factly, without a hint of self-consciousness, that my heart squeezes in my chest. How did I get so lucky?
He smiled, and my heart did a double flip. He looked… perfect. His eyes, the colour of warm honey, crinkled at the corners as he grinned. His hair, slightly tousled, fell across his forehead in that adorable way I loved. He was wearing his favourite soft grey sweater, the one that always smelled faintly of sandalwood.
We shared a quiet moment, just looking at each other. It was one of those moments where words seemed unnecessary, where the connection between us was palpable.
He places the tray on the bed as he sits beside me and lands a lingering kiss on my forehead, grinning like he's just done the most mischievous thing in the world.
"You made this?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.
He nods, feigning an air of seriousness. "Of course. You think magic like this just appears?"
I laugh, shaking my head. He lifts the fork, offering me a bite, and the moment the soft sweetness melts on my tongue, I wonder if this is what love tastes like.
We eat together, trading bites and stories. Maple syrup somehow ends up on his chin, and I reach out to wipe it away. His eyes never leave mine as he catches my hand, pressing a kiss to my sticky fingers. The simple gesture sends warmth spreading through me like honey in tea.
Later, with the sun kissing our skin, we find ourselves in the park. The swings creak as we take turns pushing each other higher, laughter curling through the air like dandelion seeds on the breeze. He tucks a daisy behind my ear, and I wonder if a moment so fragile—like a bubble that might pop if I breathe too hard. But he looks at me like I am every good thing wrapped into one, and for once, I allow myself to believe it.
We moved to the slide, holding hands as we went down. He playfully pushed me on the merry-go-round, making me dizzy with laughter. I felt like a kid again, carefree and full of joy.
By the lake, he lifts a strawberry to my lips, and I take it between my teeth, the tartness dancing with the lingering sweetness of the morning. There's something intimate in the simplicity of it, in the way his fingertips brush my chin, in the quiet contentment we share.
We spread a blanket beneath an ancient oak tree, the dappled sunlight creating a kaleidoscope on our skin. He produces a paper bag of strawberries from the farmer's market, each one perfectly ripe.
"Open," he gestured, holding a berry to my lips. I comply, the sweetness bursting across my tongue. He watches intently, his expression making me self-conscious.
"What?" I ask, laughing.
"You look at strawberries the way I look at you," he says. "Like you can't quite believe something so perfect exists."
I roll my eyes, but secretly, the words nestle beneath my ribs, like a warm coal I'll tend for days.
He feeds me another berry, and I return the favour. Our fingers become stained with juice. He reached out and gently brushed a stray hair from my face, his fingers lingering on my cheek for a moment longer than necessary as his gaze drew me in. I felt a blush creep up my neck, and he chuckled softly. When he kisses me, I taste sweetness and sunshine and possibility.
As the day grows warmer, we walk hand in hand through the botanic gardens. He doesn't rush, matching his long stride to my meandering pace. I stop to admire every bloom that catches my eye, and he listens with surprising attention as I share random flower facts I've collected over the years.
"This one blooms only at night," I tell him, pointing to a closed white bud.
"Like you," he teases. "Most beautiful when everyone else is sleeping."
When we reach the rose garden, he disappears briefly, returning with a single peach-coloured bloom.
"Don't tell the garden police," he whispers, tucking it behind my ear.
The petals are velvet against my skin, the scent intoxicating. I close my eyes, memorizing this moment—the weight of his hand at the small of my back, the distant murmur of other visitors, the particular quality of light that makes everything seem gilded.
I turn in his arms, studying the familiar planes of his face—the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, the small scar above his brow from a childhood bike accident, and the tiny silver hairs beginning to appear at his temples.
"What?" he asks, catching me staring.
How to explain that I'm trying to preserve this image, store it away for the hard days, the lonely nights that inevitably come in any life? How to tell him that sometimes this happiness feels so fragile, so improbable, that I'm afraid to fully inhabit it?
Instead, I say, "I love the way you look at me."
His smile blooms slowly, like a time-lapse of a flower opening. "How's that?"
"Like I'm both a miracle and the most natural thing in the world."
He laughs softly. "That's exactly what you are." He pressed his lips to my forehead. A feeling that will forever remain with me. Before I could reciprocate…
My alarm blares, jolting me into consciousness. I reach out, but the space beside me is empty, the sheets cool to the touch. The scent of coffee and pancakes has vanished, replaced by the familiar mustiness of my apartment. My fingers touch my forehead and I can still feel the phantom press of his lips.
I blink against the morning light, reorienting myself to reality. It was a dream—all of it. The breakfast tray, the playground swings, the strawberry-stained kisses. A beautiful fabrication woven from the wishes and maybes and somedays. But it wasn't just any dream. It was the dream that lives in the heart of every romantic, the sweet whisper that makes us keep our eyes open for coffee shop meetings and mismatched mugs in thrift stores. The possibility that ordinary Tuesdays might someday be extraordinary, simply because of who we're spending them with.
I smile, stretching in the morning light. Dream or not, I can still taste honey on my tongue. (I don't know about you).