The morning light crept gently across the meadow, painting the grass in shades of gold. Thyra stirred first, her head resting on Jirawut's chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. She smiled faintly, tracing idle circles on his skin with her fingertip. For the first time in years, she had woken not in fear, but in peace.
Jirawut opened his eyes and brushed his lips against her forehead. "Good morning," he murmured, his voice still heavy with sleep.
"Good morning, my king," she teased softly, though her words carried warmth rather than jest.
He chuckled, tightening his arm around her waist. "Not yet. Not until we make it real."
Her eyes glimmered with curiosity. "And how will you make it real?"
