Requested by: Anonymous. Patrick bringing Shelagh breakfast in bed after their wedding.

Patrick slowly pushes the door to the bedroom open with his shoulder, careful to keep the glass of orange juice on the tray he carries from sloshing.

He feels like the luckiest man in the world as he looks at his wife – his Shelagh, he can say that now, and it makes his heart skip a beat – and places the tray with breakfast on the nightstand.

She must feel tired, or very safe; despite having risen for Lauds every morning for years, she is still fast asleep, even though it is well past nine.

Patrick resists the urge to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear, afraid to wake her, and studies her instead, noting that she looks angelic, her lashes throwing feathery shadows and her lips – still a bit swollen from all the kissing they did last night, and everything that came after –slightly parted.

He thinks this must be his favourite expression, this look of utter content and trust, for she must trust him so much to sleep so deep.

He is wrong; when she takes a deep breath and opens her eyes, the blue sparkling like fresh water when they light on him, she looks even better, and Patrick understands why: she knows that she is loved.