November 20, 2024 — 6:45 AMBohol, Private Villa
The third morning arrived not with a dramatic sunrise, but with a soft, misty haze rolling off the ocean.
Angel woke first this time, blinking slowly against the silvery light filtering through the gauzy curtains. She shifted carefully, mindful not to disturb Matthew, who was still sprawled across the bed in a way only men utterly at peace could be—half on his stomach, hair a messy halo against the white pillows, one hand lazily curled around her waist.
Angel smiled to herself.
Husband.
The word still felt new. Still wrapped in a kind of fragile awe.
Carefully, she slipped out from under his arm and padded barefoot across the wooden floor, pulling on one of his shirts from the nearby chair. It hung loosely on her, swallowing her frame, but she liked it that way.
Outside, the world smelled of wet earth and sea salt.
