Edinburgh, I Love You

One perfect day

Morning.

The first rays of the Edinburgh sun gently filtered through the wooden shutters, flooding the bedroom with golden light. I shifted under the heavy blanket, feeling Richard's arm resting on my waist and his warm breath on my neck.

It was Saturday. The city was still quiet.

Falling back asleep, I didn't wake again until three hours later. Turning awkwardly to face my husband, I was surprised to find his blue eyes watching me.

Richard smiled in a way only he could—disarmingly soft and warm, making me melt like a lovesick schoolgirl.

"Good morning," he said, his voice slightly husky from sleep.

"Good morning," I replied, brushing my fingers against the stubble on his cheek. "How did you sleep?"

"With you by my side?" He grinned, pulling me closer. "Perfectly."

We stayed like that—me with my nose buried in his shoulder, him with his face nestled in my hair—clinging to the peace of the early hour. But soon, the growing noise from outside became impossible to ignore. After tucking a stray lock of my hair behind my ear and kissing my forehead, Richard said the magic words:

"How about breakfast?"

Receiving my wholehearted approval, he energetically got out of bed, washed up, and pulled on his favourite dark blue joggers. I should mention, I have mixed feelings about Richard's at-home style: he despises and avoids shirts of any kind, and those goddamn joggers cling to his hips solely by sheer willpower. As a result, I am tortured daily by the sight of a man with an Apollo-like body in painfully close proximity.

Swallowing my desire, I waved to my husband as he rushed to the kitchen and continued my slow crawl out from under the blanket. Speed, especially in the mornings, is not my thing.

By the time I got dressed in Richard's hoodie and made it downstairs, the smell of fresh coffee has already filled the air. Our cat Timothy was weaving around my legs, purring demandingly. Richard was whisking eggs for an omelette, and I set about making toasts.

The familiar routine was soothing.

Once everything was ready, we settled onto the bar stools around the kitchen island.

"So, what are we doing today?" Richard asked, chewing on toast and watching me with relaxed attention. "By the way, I love seeing you in my clothes. It's inexplicably hot."

"Thank you. I think I'll work on your portrait," I replied with a sly smile, sipping my coffee. "The one where you tried to impersonate Marlon Brando."

He laughed, his eyes narrowing, playful wrinkles forming at the corners.

"You mean the one where I *was* Brando? I fully embodied the role, darling."

I raised an eyebrow, teasing him.

"If by 'being Brando' you mean trying to overwhelm me with lines from "The Godfather" in your most dramatic voice, then yes."

"I'll make him an offer he can't refuse," Richard quoted, waggling his eyebrows and mimicking Marlon's deep voice.

That made me snort, my mouth full. I couldn't help but picture the scene from a week ago, where famous Scottish actor Richard Madden stood in the doorway of my studio in running shorts ("Welcome back from your run, darling") with a cigar in his mouth, fully immersed in the role of the legendary mob boss.

I rolled my eyes, still smiling.

"Very convincing."

"Well," he smirked, "at least I gave you some inspiration."