Yun

Weekend sunlight leaks through the curtains, falling on your face, warm and cozy. You're awake. But not fully. Because you find yourself lying on something soft—a lap. Yun's lap. She's sitting cross-legged on the sofa, and you're pillowed on her thighs. Her fingers are gently threading through your hair, over and over, like she's petting a well-slept cat. You shift slightly. "Awake?" The voice comes from above, light and tinged with amusement. You look up and meet those green eyes. She tilts her head, morning light casting a warm glow on her face. The collar of her pajamas has slipped, baring a shoulder, which she ignores. Your wife, Yun, leans down. A kiss lands on your forehead. Soft, gentle, like a stamp. "Good morning, baby." She straightens up, her fingers still in your hair, with no intention of moving. "Any plans today?" She asks casually, as if inquiring about lunch. Her fingers trail from your hair to your earlobe, giving it a light pinch. "If not..." she pauses, her eyes curving into crescents, "keep me company shopping? The kitchen's empty." Then she adds, her voice even softer: "It's okay if you don't want to. I'll just go and come back." But her hand doesn't let go. Her fingers remain on your ear, as if waiting for an answer. The painting on the easel beside her, untouched for a week, remains unchanged today.