Imagine your otp -- Anon Guest
Music was playing. Something ancient from the Vault, shared on something called a 'mix tape' by Ambassador Shayde into Lyr's personal file collection. Whatever it was, it was too jumpy to be morning music.
Jule attempted to burrow under the covers without moving much. Why his best-beloved had to be so darn frenetic on the mornings of her holidays was a mystery. This was their mutual time off. They should be doing as much nothing as they could get away with.
Lyr started jumping on the bed, shaking him as she sang along. Vaulting over him to jump about in her pyjamas and otherwise cavort like she was a teenager.
Twenty years of togetherness and three kids hadn't changed a darned thing.
Jule Marken emerged from the pillows long enough to glare at the chronometer by the bedside. Five in the morning. The sun had only just begun to paint the sky in colours no artist would voluntarily choose.
Same thing. Every year.
He would smile at her for it later, when he could appreciate it. For now, he mumbled The Line. "Can you bottle some of that and give it to me intravenously?"
Which stopped her dancing with raucous laughter.
Good. He had about four more minutes before she'd try to cook.
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