Sunlight
He hates waking before her, yet loves it all the same. The sunlight reflects radiance off black strands, looms shimmers over her pale frame, and Zuko smiles-warmly watching the rise and fall of her chest.
Only by midday does she come alive in a tangle of limbs and hair, stretching and yawning, purr like groans and whimpers, until she collapses back down, tilting her head to watch him.
These are mornings, waning into early afternoons spent in silence. Words are not needed just the sunlight and soft kisses pressed to his jaw and down her neck. Their embraces, careful, yet always pulling close, are a welcome gift as Mai stumbles about, clumsily finding her footing as she shakes the disoriented feeling of the place between asleep and awake. Zuko helps, holding steady, his fingers curved around her waist, her hand in his as she walks to the tub.
They spend more time than he remembers like this, waking to the warmth of the sun-Zuko as soon as it rises, Mai a little late. Slowly, additions come, a daughter, a son, all joining in the routine.
Years pass and he continues to watch the swells with each inhale, scanning across the sheets from his wife to the children's tiny lungs.
More time passes and they grow, illuminating the room further with laughs and giggles, leaving mornings a hectic mess. Their shadows dance along the light that shines through the curtains.
This is sunlight, this is home-everyday until his hair turns silver and Mai's eyes begin to dull.
He hates waking before her, yet loves it all the same. The sunlight reflects radiance off grey strands still brilliant despite her age, rays of light loom shimmers over her pale frame, and Zuko smiles weakly-watching the subtle rise and fall of her chest.
Only by midday she does not come alive in a tangle of limbs and hair, stretching and yawning with purr like groans and whimpers. She stays, curling over and into his chest, slow hollow breaths, until the day comes where it all stops-and the sunlight does not spill through the curtains.
