31. Honeymoon Phase Too Long
HONEYMOON PHASE TOO LONG
Married life feels softer in the first few days, like someone lowered the volume on everything except us.
I wake up warm, tangled in Reid’s arm, sunlight creeping across the sheets because—for once—we didn’t set alarms. No daycare scramble, no Slack notifications, no exam countdowns flashing across his screen. Just quiet.
I don’t remember the last time we had quiet.
Reid shifts beside me, half asleep, half awake, his lips brushing the top of my shoulder as he mumbles something that sounds like my wife into my skin.
And it hits me again—sharp and warm—that we’re married.
Not planning to be. Not talking about being.
Just… are. I roll over, and he blinks up at me, hair sticking up everywhere, looking boyish and exhausted and happy all at once.
“Morning,” I say.
His mouth curves slowly. “Morning, wife.”
I try not to smile too hard, but it doesn’t work. “You’ve said that like seven times already.”
“And I’ll say it seven thousand more.” He tucks a piece of my hair behind my ear. “Say it back.”
I smooth my hand across his jaw. “Good morning, husband.”
He exhales like that word alone unraveled whatever tension he carried into sleep.
He kisses me, soft and slow, and for a minute we don’t move.
We just breathe each other in, basking in the luxury of having nowhere to be.
Eventually reality taps at the edges—Liam is with Mom for the weekend, and we should at least pretend to be functional adults—but neither of us rush. We take our time.
Coffee tastes better when Reid pours it and hands me the mug first. He claims it’s because I’m the one doing all the “actual hard work” in our lives, as if he isn’t juggling classes and labs and traveling home every chance he can.
He leans against the counter across from me, shirtless, hair still damp from the shower, watching me drink like it’s a love language.
“Stop staring,” I say.
“No,” he answers, not even trying to hide it.
Small things feel bigger now. The way he rests his hand on my lower back when he walks behind me. The way he reaches for my left hand every time he notices the ring—like he still can’t believe it’s there. The way he says “us” with this quiet certainty that wraps around the room like warmth.
We spend the morning without any kind of agenda.
We sit on the couch and talk about nothing—how the ceremony felt, who cried, how Liam kept spinning in circles after the reception because he liked the way his suit “swished.” Reid thumbs through the stack of cards people left for us, smiling at each little note.
I lean my legs across his lap, and he absentmindedly draws circles on my ankle.
When he looks up, there’s a softness in his eyes I haven’t seen in months.
“This feels good,” he says. “Just being.”
“Yeah,” I say. “It does.”
He hesitates, then adds quietly, “I like calling you my wife.”
I don’t tell him I like it too—not just the word, but what it symbolizes: that despite the doubts, the stress, the hard talks, we still walked toward each other. We still said yes.
Later, we walk hand-in-hand through a small trail near the hotel, nothing fancy—just trees, sunlight, and the sound of water somewhere in the distance. Reid keeps brushing his thumb across the back of my hand like he’s making sure I’m really there.
“I keep thinking about the ceremony,” he says. “How nervous I was.”
“You were shaking.”
He laughs softly. “You weren’t?”
“Oh, I was dying inside. Just hiding it better.”
He squeezes my hand. “You were beautiful.”
“You were pale.”
“Fair. But I was pale in a beautiful, emotionally overwhelmed way.”
I bump my shoulder into him. “Sure.”
We talk about the vows—not the words themselves, but how it felt to say them.
We talk about the people who showed up. About the way Mom watched me walk down the aisle with this expression that was equal parts pride and fear.
About the way Reid’s dad clapped him on the back afterward so hard he almost stumbled.
We talk about the future in the vague, easy way newlyweds do before the weight of logistics reenters the picture.
No tension. No arguments. Just possibility.
By late afternoon, we’re back in the hotel room, lying on the bed with the curtains open and a blanket across our legs.
I run my fingers through Reid’s hair while he traces slow, lazy lines along my arm.
“Do you feel different?” I ask.
He tilts his head slightly. “Do you?”
“Maybe a little.”
He shifts closer and kisses my collarbone. “I feel… grounded. Like whatever’s coming next, we’re doing it together.”
His words settle into me slowly, like heat spreading from the inside out.
We nap for a while—real naps, the kind I haven’t had since Liam was born.
When I wake, Reid’s arm is draped across my waist, his breath warm against my back.
For a moment I let myself believe this is how every morning will feel.
Dinner is quiet and simple—a place nearby, nothing fancy. We talk more about the wedding, about Liam, about school, about work. Normal life is creeping in at the edges, but for now it’s soft enough to ignore.
After dinner, we walk back slowly, our fingers intertwined. I lean into him, resting my head briefly against his shoulder. He kisses the top of my head without thinking. When we reach the door, he pauses and looks at me with that expression he only gets when he’s overwhelmed in a good way.
“I’m really happy,” he says. “With you. With us.”
My throat tightens. “Me too.”
He unlocks the door and steps aside, motioning me in first. “Come on, wife. Let’s enjoy the rest of our honeymoon before life remembers we exist.”
I laugh, stepping inside, but he catches my hand before I get too far. He pulls me back gently, lifting my fingers to his lips. Just a small kiss. Just a small moment. But married life, even in this soft, early stage, feels like it might be built from these small moments.
And as I look at him, warm and steady and trying so hard to be everything for us, I let myself enjoy it.
Just for today. Reid leaves for school three days after we get home.
Three days. That’s all the time we get in our new marriage before life stretches itself between us again, pulling at all the edges we’d just barely smoothed down.
The morning he leaves, the apartment feels too still. He kisses me twice at the door—once soft, once firmer—and rests his forehead against mine like he’s trying to memorize the moment.
“I’ll be back Friday night,” he says.
“Drive safe,” I say. “Text me when you get there.”
He nods, but the way his fingers tighten on my waist tells me he doesn’t want to move either.
We let go at the same time, but it still feels lopsided—like one of us released first without meaning to.
After he’s gone, the silence is immediate.
Not heavy. Not painful. Just… unfamiliar. Married silence.
I stand in the living room for a full minute before Liam barrels around the corner holding two mismatched socks, yelling about how one of them “escaped” and I need to help capture it. Normal life resumes instantly, swallowing the quiet the way it swallows everything else.
By midmorning, I’m back at work. My inbox is exactly as full as I feared.
Eric flags down my desk before I can even sit, launching into updates from the last forty-eight hours.
I dive in because it’s what I do—fix things, steady things, keep them moving—but a small part of me aches at the speed that real life reclaims me.
Being a wife feels more real when Reid is here. Less real when Slack notifications are pinging and deadlines breathe down my neck. But we’re trying. We’ve been trying since before the wedding. Trying is our thing. At lunch, I get a text from him.
Reid: Made it. Miss you already.
Reid: Also, I think I left my charger. If Liam tries to claim it, don’t give in.
I laugh under my breath and text back.
He’s already eyeing it like prey. I’ll protect it with my life.
Reid: My hero.
Reid: Call tonight?
Always.
It feels good. Simple. Easy in the way we haven’t been easy in a long time.
And we do call. Every night that week. Sometimes for ten minutes, sometimes for an hour, depending on how much Liam cooperates and how much caffeine Reid drank to survive his evening labs.
But the consistency helps. It tethers us.
We send pictures, too. A photo of Liam wearing Reid’s hat backward.
A photo Reid sends from the campus field, hair messy, grin soft.
A photo of the dinner I cobble together from leftovers with the caption Look at me pretending to function.
A photo of Reid holding a mountain of laundry with the caption Married life is wild, wife.
It’s stupid and sweet and ours. But there’s still the distance.
Not the emotional kind—though that creeps in sometimes, softer than before but still present.
The physical kind is worse now. Marriage makes the miles feel heavier.
It’s like the title husband should’ve come with a teleportation ability and we got scammed.
On Thursday afternoon, he calls between classes.
I’m in the car waiting at Liam’s daycare pickup line.
“Are you coming home tomorrow or Saturday morning?” I ask.
“Tomorrow,” he says. “Coach moved practice earlier. I can leave right after.”
I smile. “Good. Liam misses you.”
“You miss me?” he asks.
I look down at my hand on the gear shift, at the wedding band that still feels new. “Yeah,” I say. “More than I expected.”
He’s quiet for a second. “Me too.”
His honesty warms something under my ribs.
We hang up when the line moves. When I buckle Liam into the back seat, he asks, “Daddy home?”
“Tomorrow,” I tell him.
“Tomorrow soon?”
I kiss his forehead. “Very soon.”