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"Hey, sleepyhead."
Zelda doesn't bother to turn around, since their bed is so close to their kitchen— their shoebox apartment doesn't have enough room for him not to hear. She keeps at the stove in her washed out pink bathrobe that she's taken to wearing on Sunday mornings like this one, scrambling some eggs for their breakfast. Sunlight filters in onto the tile floor, casting little shadows of the little succulents that Link tends to, the plants he talks to like they're alive in the cutest, most ridiculous voice.
Link groans, and she can picture his brown-blonde mess of bedhead in her mind. It makes her chuckle to herself. The eggs are done, and she scoops them off the pan with a spatula onto a plate. Link always says "spatula" in a bad Mr. Krabs impersonation. She chuckles again.
It used to always be like this when they were kids. They weren't living together— well, they weren't even together back then— but she'd always get up earlier than him, shake him awake, admire his sleepy blue eyes without him noticing.
Nowadays, it's too cold in the mornings for that. They stay in bed together and cuddle beneath the covers for warmth on cloudy weekends. It's wonderful, of course, with his strong arms around her and his skin that smells like honey and sweetgrass, but today's sunny morning just brings her a subtle sense of nostalgia.
She hears traffic from the city outside, San Francisco, busy pedestrians, fire engines. Then she hears something softer, the creaking of old mattress springs, soft feet hitting the floor. Zelda fills the kettle with water from the sink, puts it on the stove—
She feels his arms wrap around her waist, and his bare chest against her back, flannel pajama pants against her legs. "G'mornin', princess," Link says, voice drowsy, and lays his head on her shoulder. He always uses that nickname. She likes it.
"What kind of tea do you want?"
"Uh.. green."
"You always have green."
"What's wrong with that, hm?"
He kisses her neck softly, and she sighs giddily, and it's a damn near perfect morning.