My Husband, My Hidden Truth

I woke up to sunlight streaming through the half-drawn curtains, soft and golden, painting patterns across the white sheets.

The first thing I felt was warmth.

Not just from the sun filtering through the curtains, but from the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of Jake’s chest beneath my cheek.

For a few blissful seconds, I didn’t move. The world outside could wait. My fingers curled against the soft fabric of his robe, my ear pressed against his heartbeat, as if listening hard enough could make it belong to me.

The room smelled faintly of him, fresh linen, and something I couldn’t name but had memorized long ago.

If I could bottle this morning and keep it in a drawer for the days I felt invisible, I would.

I tilted my head slightly to look at him. He was still asleep, lashes resting on his skin, jaw relaxed. The man everyone feared and respected was, in this moment, completely unguarded. The handsome, cold boss everyone wished they could get close to or talk to was here lying beside me. He was mine. He had been mine since yesterday, today, and would still be forever.

I wished this moment of just looking and admiring him would be forever. But moments like this don’t last forever.

I eased myself out of bed slowly, careful not to wake him. My feet touched the cool wooden floor, and I padded quietly toward the kitchen. I didn’t know if he’d eat much—he wasn’t the type to linger over breakfast—but I wanted to make something anyway.

Maybe it was selfish. Maybe I just wanted him to leave with the memory of me doing something gentle for him.

I cracked eggs into a pan, the sizzle breaking the silence. Toast slid from the toaster, releasing the warm, yeasty smell of bread. I made coffee strong enough to chase away any lingering sleep and get him ready for the day’s work.

The eggs were still sizzling when I felt him behind me—the quiet pad of his bare feet, then the sudden, solid weight of his presence.

“Morning, my woman,” he murmured, voice still rough with sleep.

Before I could turn, his arms slid around my waist, pulling me firmly against him. His chest was warm and broad against my spine, the faint scent of his skin mixing with coffee and toast.

I laughed softly, about to protest that I was cooking, but he was already moving—lifting me effortlessly off the floor. My hands flew to his shoulders, startled by his strength.

“Jake…” I tried to warn, “we might be late for work—”

He silenced me with a sudden pull, his hand cradling the back of my head. Tilting his head slightly, he caught my lower lip between his teeth, biting and drawing it into his mouth with deliberate heat. His left hand held me in place as if he feared I might escape, while my fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, feeling the flex of muscle beneath as he adjusted to fit our mouths perfectly together.

In three long strides, he carried me to the counter, setting me down on the cool marble. The chill of the surface met the warmth still pulsing through me, making my breath catch.

One hand braced beside my hip, the other lifted my chin so my eyes locked with his. There was something in that gaze—the same fierce claim from last night, now sharpened by morning hunger.

His mouth found mine again, urgent this time, though he paused for a breath before deepening the kiss. I felt the tension in his shoulders under my palms, the subtle shift of muscle as he moved closer.

The world outside faded—the hiss of the stove, the hum of the fridge, the sunlight spilling across the countertop—until all that remained was the heat between us. And just like that, we picked up where we had left off the night before. My voice broke into a soft moan, the rhythm between us quick, insistent—the kind of sound only two people in sync could make.

It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t gentle. It was a claiming—fast, almost reckless—leaving my cheeks flushed and my pulse racing.

When it was over, he leaned his forehead against mine, both of us catching our breath.

“Now,” he murmured with a rare smile, “we can eat. It’s always important to taste you before tasting breakfast… you’re better than any meal.”

We laughed over coffee and toast moments later, as if the air between us hadn’t just caught fire.

We ate together. He teased me about the way I buttered my toast. I rolled my eyes when he added too much sugar to his coffee. There were moments—small ones—when I forgot that outside this apartment, Jake and I lived in two different lives at work.

When it was time to leave, he drove us most of the way to the hotel, our workplace, only pulling over a few streets away.

I was used to it—that had always been our thing since I set the rules of not letting people know we were married, and he had been abiding by it for two years now.

I came down from the car, gave him a little forehead kiss before I walked the rest of the way, holding my bag a little tighter, my smile already practiced and ready.