Ed Sheeran [SMUT]

Sunday brunch

The best part about the weekend is sleeping in on Sundays. When I was a little girl, my family had a rule that no one got up until 10am. At 10 am we’d all make our way out of bed and into the kitchen where my parents would make breakfast for my siblings and I. We’d make every single kind of breakfast food that we had in the house, anything from pancakes to bacon and eggs. We’d all sit around the kitchen table, eating and talking. After breakfast we’d get dressed up and go to church. It was one of the only constants in my life growing up, knowing that every Sunday I’d get to spend time with my family.

        At 22, things have changed quite a bit. I moved out of my family’s house when I was 18, moving across the world to Europe to attend college, where I majored in biology. Most days I sit and wonder what it would have been like if I wouldn’t have moved out here, if I wouldn’t have moved out of my comfort zone. I would have never graduated in this incredible country, I would have never gotten into med school, I would have never met him. Ed. Ed. Ed. I can’t even begin to contemplate my life without him. I love him.

I know that I love him.

I know that I love him because I want to stay up into the odd hours of the morning and put together a real, homemade, red velvet cake, with cream cheese frosting and all. I know I love him because I went out and bought a ten-dollar bottle of red food coloring to make sure the cake was the perfect shade of red.

 I know I love him because I worry about the things that only people who love him worry about. I worry about things like if he’s getting enough quality sleep, and if he’s spending too much time singing and not enough time drinking fluids or getting sunlight. I worry more than his mother, because I highly doubt she cares how much vitamin D he’s getting on a daily basis.

I know I love him because I can give him my honest opinion, like how much I hate his crew neck t-shirts, and that god awful obsession with Nandos. But even when he’s running on little to no sleep, with a neck beard, smelling like beer, there is something completely charismatic and honest about him that makes him look positively beautiful. And I say the word “beautiful” in the manliest sense ever.

I know I love him because I want to be part of his life, and his future, more than I’ve ever wanted to be part of anyone else’s life or future. I want to be there for his successes with champagne, and for his failures with whiskey and pizza. I want to adopt sticky little vomit machines who try to kill themselves in our bathroom for no reason, with him.  I know I love him because he makes me so god damned happy.

Right now, it’s somewhere between 7am and 9am on a Sunday, and instead of my parents making breakfast food, and instead of going to church, I’m laying in Ed and I’s giant king sized bed, surrounded by blankets, completely tangled with him. I can feel his hot breath against the back of my neck and his left arm wrapped around my torso.  I can hear the soft thud of raindrops against the skylight on the ceiling. His breathing is shallow and even, and I can tell he’s asleep. I cherish the time I have with him, even if it’s just sleeping. You forget what it’s like to be with someone when you spent the majority of your time in a long distance relationship. I love little things like the way he buries his head into the crook of my neck, or the way he says my name. It sounds safe as it tumbles out of his mouth. I close my eyes and sink back into unconsciousness for another hour or two.

            The smell of delicious food drags me out of sleep, as my eyes snap open. I roll over, expecting to find his body where it was an hour ago, only to realize I’m in bed alone. I groan, sitting up, rubbing my eyes. I throw on a tank top and a pair of shorts before brushing my teeth in the bathroom and making my way into the kitchen to find Ed.