Waking up this morning was different. There was no blaring alarm clock, no groaning as I pulled myself out of bed, and definitely no wishing that the woman I loved with my entire being was next to me. No, it was nothing like the usual; instead, it was feather light kisses along my jaw, moans of pleasure as her lips grazed mine and a feeling of deep contentment at the realization that she was lying in my arms.
As she dresses for work, I lie against the headboard and watch her, amazed at the way her hair sways with every movement. I let myself relish in the beauty of her petite form as it pulls on pants and buttons up a shirt the color of the summer sky. She always looked good in blue. She smiles as her eye catches mine in the mirror, and I feel my heartbeat pick up its pace. I love what she does to me.
Later, in the kitchen, I watch her sway to the music flowing from the radio as she makes us breakfast. (Or is it dinner? I still can't decide, even after ten years on night shift.) I let a chuckle escape me as she twirls around, dancing with an invisible partner. She finally sits down to eat, but we don't exchange any words; our hands intertwined across the table are all we need.
On the drive to work, she lets me play my favorite music station. She giggles as I try to imitate the singers, and tells me not to quit my night job. We grow quiet as a slow, sad song comes on, and I reach across the console to take her hand; she isn't crying, but I feel as though I need to touch her, just to prove that she's real.
We work separate cases, but keep each other posted. She works the double homicide of a mother and daughter, raped, beaten and murdered, all because the husband wants a divorce and neither will let him leave. I work the shooting of a convenience store clerk. I know when we get home, she'll break down and let her heart take over; I could care less, because I love to comfort her.
As shift ends, we meet in the locker room, and I pull her close, not caring that anyone could walk in and see us. She smiles as she pulls away and tells me not to worry; she'll be fine. However, when we walk in the door, she lets go and the tears flow down her cheeks. I hold her to me, letting her cry into my chest, taking the pain off her shoulders. After awhile, she pulls away, and heads to the bedroom to change. She is exhausted, so I toast a bagel and take it to her in bed. It isn't much, but I know she wont be very hungry anyway.
I crawl into bed an hour later and she immediately rolls over to rest her head on my chest. I wrap my arms around her in a protective gesture. As we both begin to drift off, she moves her lips to my ear and whispers, "I love you, Nick Stokes." And in a similar manner, I reply, "And I love you Sara Sidle."
And as I succumb to sleep, I thank my lucky stars that I got Sara. I know that from now on, waking up is going to be a whole different experience.