Mornin’, Wife
1055 Words
Clara knew something was wrong the second she started to wake up.
For one disoriented moment, she thought she must have drunk too much the night before. It would have explained the heaviness in her limbs, the slow, uncertain way her thoughts tried to come together.
The blanket beneath her felt wrong, rough where it should have been soft, and the surface under her carried a firmness that reminded her more of a couch than any bed she would have chosen.
The air didn’t smell right either.
Instead of coffee, instead of the faint clean scent of her apartment, there was woodsmoke, steady and lived-in, like it had soaked into the walls over time.
Wherever she had ended up, no one had started the morning.
The thought had barely settled when an arm shifted around her.
It drew her closer, slow and instinctive, and the solid heat of a man’s body pressed against her back.
Her eyes snapped open.
Mortification hit first, sharp and immediate, pushing aside the lingering haze of sleep. She did not do this. Not like this. Not with someone she couldn’t even place.
She held still, hardly breathing, trying to gather her thoughts without waking him, but his arm rested at her waist with an ease that made it feel familiar, as though it had settled there a hundred times before.
Careful, she shifted, just enough to create a sliver of space.
The response was immediate.
His arm tightened, drawing her back against him, not forceful, but certain, as though the movement had stirred him from sleep and he had no reason to let her go.
His voice followed a moment later, low and rough against her shoulder.
“Mornin’, wife.”
Clara went still.
Her thoughts felt slow and unfocused, as if she had woken from something heavier than sleep. She tried to reach back, to find the night before, but there was nothing there. No memory of going out, no drinks, no laughter, no moment where she had decided to make a mistake she could not take back.
So how had she ended up in a stranger’s bed?
And worse… how had she gotten married without remembering it?
Behind her, he shifted closer.
The scrape of his unshaven jaw brushed the back of her neck before his lips followed, soft and unhurried, as though it was something he had done a hundred times before. The ease of it sent a jolt through her.
“My wife,” he murmured again.
The words should have sounded ridiculous.
She should have turned right then, shut it down, told him this was a mistake, that she didn’t do one-night stands, no matter how bad the night before had been.
But the warmth of him, the quiet certainty in his voice, pressed into something she hadn’t expected.
Something that had been empty longer than she liked to admit.
For a moment, she let herself stay there.
Then her brain caught up.
Her phone. Her apartment. Work.
She didn’t see her phone anywhere.
That alone was enough to snap her fully awake.
Careful not to spook him, she eased forward, inch by inch, until the weight of his arm slipped from her waist. The loss of it lingered longer than it should have, and that irritated her more than anything else.
The bed creaked as she sat up.
Too loud. Too old.
She pulled the blanket tighter around herself, suddenly aware of how exposed she was, how unfamiliar everything felt now that she was properly awake.
The room came into focus slowly.
Rough wooden walls. Not decorative, not styled, but worn in a way that spoke of years. A narrow window let in pale morning light through thin curtains that did little to soften it. In the corner sat a washstand with an actual basin and pitcher.
An actual basin.
She stared at it for a second too long.
Okay. So what. A themed place. A historical inn. Some kind of immersive experience she had been dumb enough to go along with.
God.
Had she really gotten drunk and hooked up with a live-action prairie reenactor?
Her stomach turned.
That explanation should have worked.
It didn’t.
Nothing about this felt staged. There were no shortcuts, no cheap details. Everything looked… used. Real.
Clara swung her legs over the side of the bed, her bare feet meeting cool floorboards, and that was when she saw it.
Creamy white fabric rested over the back of a chair.
Not tossed there. Placed.
Carefully.
A dress.
She leaned forward, the blanket slipping from her shoulders without her noticing, her fingers hovering before settling against the sleeve. The stitching caught her attention immediately, too precise, too deliberate to be something mass-produced.
This wasn’t a costume.
Her breath slowed as she gathered more of it into her hands, the fabric unfolding in quiet layers.
Then the shape settled into place.
A wedding dress.
Behind her, the bed creaked again.
She froze, the fabric still clutched in her hands.
Some part of her resisted turning around, as though if she didn’t look at him, this might still be something she could explain away.
But she felt him sit up. Felt the shift in the room as his attention fixed on her.
“You’re up early,” he said.
His voice was steadier now, though something quieter lingered beneath it.
Careful.
Clara closed her eyes briefly, then turned.
He sat with one hand braced against the mattress, his other hand sliding slowly along her bare back as if it belonged there. His touch wasn’t questioning. It wasn’t hesitant.
It was certain.
His dark hair was still mussed from sleep, his blue eyes clear and focused.
Not confused.
Not concerned.
Just sure.
On her.
Clara swallowed.
“Is… this my dress?” she asked, lifting the fabric slightly.
The question felt thin the moment it left her.
She forced herself to meet his eyes.
“…who are you?”
He stilled, only for a fraction of a second.
Not offended. Not angry.
Just… caught off guard.
“Elijah,” he said, like it should mean something.
When she only stared at him, trying and failing to place the name, his mouth shifted, something uncertain slipping through this time.
“Eli. Elijah Walker.”
He held her gaze.
Then, simply,
“Your husband.”
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