Years later, in a small apartment in London, I am baking cupcakes, humming to some Christmas song. The sweet smell of sugar fills the air, along with the kind, gentle light of the morning sun. My hair has started turning grey, my movements have turned more stiff and slow. And yet I'm happy.


My husband comes down, grunting, his heavy footsteps echoing throughout the house. I laugh and glance back, taking a moment to admire his tangled, morning hair, or his half closed eyes.


"Morning", I say easily, placing a plate before his seat.


"Morning". His eyes, his face, his whole world lights up. Is it the sight of me or the food I have yet to learn. Perhaps it's both. I wouldn't blame him if it's both.


He's smiling now, the grumpiness completely gone, replaced with newfound energy and mischief. He walks towards me, wrapping his heavy arms around my waist, trailing soft, gentle kisses down my neck. I laugh and hand him his food, shooing him away, in a futile effort to hide the red colouring my cheeks.


Despite all this, my husband isn't about to just give up. He takes my face between his palms, gently lifting it up so that I am facing him, so that he can see my wide eyes and my burning cheeks. Chuckling, he presses a gentle kiss against my lips.


Even after so many years, my breath catches in my throat. He is so beautiful, everything is so beautiful, and I cannot move, cannot speak, cannot help but admire it.


"I love you, Ruby". Those four words are the only ones that I manage to say.