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It was almost something out of a romance novel, Nanaba thought, glancing to the side to see Mike’s windswept hair dampened by the ocean spray. She was sure they’d make a good romance novel cover at the very least: horseback riding on a sunlit strand, sun sinking in the west, sand glowing gold around the horses’ hooves.
Mike turned to catch her staring and tilted his head to one side.
“What is it?” he asked, a slow smile lifting his mouth.
She looked down at her horse’s neck and let her fingers brush over its burnished black fur. When she looked back to Mike a moment later, the sun was catching his hair in a halo.
She found herself returning the smile immediately, though she wasn’t about to admit to what she was actually thinking. It was far too silly. Besides, she had never cared much for the presentation of romance; in a manner of speaking it was a kind of lie. Actual romance was never like the books and certainly had little to do with presentation; it was much more intimate and solid—trustworthy.
“Can you believe,” she asked, looking behind them at the hoofprints that littered the sand at the edge of the water, “that people used to ride horses into battle when the opportunity for doing things like this has always existed?”
Mike’s smile twitched—or his mustache did. He did not tell her that horses were galloped down beaches in times of war all over the world for years and years and years, though it was true.
“It does seem odd,” he said instead, and felt that he knew the direction her thoughts had taken. The idea of bloodshed and death was so far away from their current reality: riding horses on their honeymoon on a beach simply because they could and it had sounded like fun. The last few hours had been soft and quiet and gentle and he would remember every second of it for the rest of his life, he was sure.
“We should head back,” Nanaba said, pulling gently on the reins, “before it gets dark.”
He followed her lead with a nod.
The ride back was as slow and careful as the ride out had been; they had hardly spoken, but Mike never did have to speak much around Nanaba: he never felt pressured to fill the silence between them, maybe because it was so comfortable.
He watched her from the corner of his eye, watched her pleasant neutral expression and the way the saltwater had dampened her hair and caused it to dry widly.
And when she glanced over and caught him staring her cheeks warmed a little, but she still asked him: “What is it?”
And he wanted to say that he was at peace—that he was content in a way he only ever felt when he was with her—but it seemed an odd thing to tell the woman he had married just three days ago.
So he only reached out a hand.
Without a word she leaned over to tangle her fingers with his. “Mike?”
He looked down at their joined hands, wedding bands glowing red-gold. “I really love you,” he said, and if his voice was strained a little with emotion, Nanaba blessedly did not comment on it.