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He’s the first to wake in the morning — Miguel somehow always (always) shuts off the alarm before it can remove you from your sleep. You’d never know it, though; this was a thankless job for him. Besides, the only thanks he needs is the sleepy expression you adorn when he peppers kisses on your face to lull you back into the waking world.
You yawn, tears pricking the edges of your vision and head slightly wobbling. The bed creaks underneath you as Miguel languidly reaches both arms around your shoulders, hugging you into his chest from behind. You hum and lean against him, breathing in his smell. He smells like baby powder and cologne that has worn off a bit, and you inhale deeply, face buried in the crevice between his jaw and collarbone.
Hands clasping gently at his firm hold around you, you sit up straighter to kiss his golden skin, cheek rubbing against itchy stumble and lips clumsy against his jaw. Your husband sighs in contentment, loosening his embrace to allow you more room to shimmy your way up. You squirm in his hold, eventually finding purchase with your chest against his and hips straddling his waist.
“Good morning.” His voice is husky, the state of sleep still lingering. Your hands find their way up to cup his face. Miguel’s left arm loops around your waist and his right reaches backward to prop himself up.
“Good morning, Miguel,” you whisper, his name a delicate prayer on your lips. One of your hands combs itself through his hair, dark and shiny tresses soft against your fingers. He murmurs something in Spanish under his breath, eyes fluttering shut at your touch with a low exhale.
The next few minutes are spent in sleepy bliss as the both of you continue to wake. At one point, you two finally fully open your eyes, rubbing the sleep from them with a pair of roaring yawns.
You wiggle yourself from his hold and feel your face wince inadvertently. Twin yawns are the culprits for certain unpleasant smells lingering in the air, and Miguel chuckles at your expression. Once you hear his low rumble of laughter, a smile so big it’s stupid splits your face, and you bury it into his shoulder so he doesn’t see how silly you look.
It’s not your fault that your husband’s so lovely, and you know that. You just find that these moments of domesticity make your heart swell and ache, bringing dumb smiles to your face and fluttering thoughts to your head.
Miguel knows of this habit — your hands covering your broad smile when you laugh, or having something cover your face when you grin. He’s not entirely sure why you do that, but he’s sure that he prefers the sight of you guffawing with reckless abandon to a hand trying to stifle your laughter into something more palatable. So, in an attempt to encourage you to smile more freely, he takes his hand from your waist and tenderly tips your chin up at him. Your eyes are owlish, drinking in his every move and waiting for his next.
He leans in, but you quickly put your hand up to block his kiss.
“W-wait! I have to brush my teeth first,” you stutter out, hand still pressed gently against his lips. He reaches up to remove it, but not before kissing your palm with a heated gaze. You take notice and a flush rises high on your cheeks, squirming underneath his stare. With a shudder and a creak, the bed underneath the two of you relents as you crawl off of him to head to the bathroom. Miguel pauses for a second; he misses the feeling of you in his lap. He then rises with a stretch, following you. If his darling wife was willing to go so far as to brush her teeth for a morning kiss, then he should be willing to do the same — give up the comforting embrace of sleepiness in exchange for minty breaths with no embarrassment.
He doesn’t say anything as he follows in suit, but he’d kiss you all the same.