The first rays of sunlight crept through the blinds, casting golden stripes across the rumpled bed. A young woman, tangled in the duvet like a recently shipwrecked survivor, stretched her arms above her head and let out an unguarded yawn. She blinked, still groggy, and ran a hand through her tousled hair.
Beside her, a man—handsome, annoyingly alert, and looking entirely too pleased with the new day—sat up and smiled. His hair was charmingly dishevelled, the kind that took no effort and would probably fall into place with a single pass of his fingers. He turned to her with the unmistakable look of a man about to do something deeply affectionate and entirely unwelcome at this hour.
He leaned in.
“Morning, gorgeous,” he murmured, his lips pursing for a kiss.
Panic flared in her eyes. She took a rapid step back, nearly tripping over the bedside rug. “Morning breath!” she blurted, holding up both hands in warning.
The words hung in the air for half a second before he beamed.
“Morning wonderful!” he corrected, eyes full of adoration.
Before she could protest further, he swooped in, cradling her face with both hands and planting a kiss—no, a whopping great kiss—full on her lips. It was the kiss that belonged in films, backed by swelling orchestral music, not in a bedroom still thick with the remnants of sleep and questionable breath.
Her eyes flew open in horror.
She had expected restraint. She had expected respect for the delicate social contract that governed mornings. But instead, she found herself locked in a kiss so deep, so passionate, that for a brief moment, she forgot her original objection.
Then reality crashed back.
She broke away, staring at him with the urgency of someone who had just swallowed a spider. He grinned, completely oblivious.
“You—” she stammered. “You really—You just—”
“Best way to start the day,” he declared, stretching his arms victoriously, as if he had just accomplished something noble.
She wiped her lips dramatically, narrowing her eyes. “You are too much of a morning person.”
“And you,” he said, wrapping an arm around her waist, “are too cute when you’re flustered.”
She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I need coffee. And mouthwash. Preferably in that order.”
He kissed her forehead. “I’ll put the kettle on.”
As he walked off, whistling cheerfully, she shook her head, muttering to herself.
“I swear, one of these days, I’ll just wake up before him and weaponise this.”
But she knew, deep down, she’d probably let him get away with it again tomorrow.
Verbal Alchemy 