The rest of the morning unfolded like a slow-motion romantic comedy. Daniel made coffee wrapped in a towel. Emma battled her post-wedding hair. They joked that marriage came with fine print: shared bathrooms, forgotten towels, and discovering that Daniel talked in his sleep.
By noon, the chaos had softened into something calmer. The honeymoon phase had barely started, yet it already felt familiar—not fireworks, but warmth. Not spectacle, but rhythm.
“You know you’re supposed to use tools for that, right?” she teased.
He looked up. “Do I look like a man who packed a toolbox for his honeymoon?”
“Fair point,” she said with a smile.
He set the knife down and crossed the room, wrapping his arms around her waist. “You know,” he said softly, “I was half-afraid you’d wake up this morning and regret it. Us. Everything.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Regret marrying the man who forgets towels but remembers my coffee order? Not a chance.”
He kissed her—slow and certain. The humor melted into something deeper. This was the real beginning—not the vows, not the dancing, but the quiet morning after, when love lives in laughter, in shared space, and in the way two people fit together like puzzle pieces.
The Towel Lesson
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