all things must pass » the beatles, queen and the backstreet boys

27- Paul McCartney

Somehow managing to balance the ridiculously heavy tray on only one hand as it wobbled dangerously, I carefully pushed open the bedroom door once again.

Soft light now streamed in through the windows as the sun rose higher and higher into the sky, alerting me to the fact that I'd probably taken too long preparing this breakfast.

Nonetheless, with my two hands setting down the many dishes on our bedside table as soundlessly as I could, I couldn't help but smile, involuntarily falling in love even more with the sight in front of me.

His lips were slightly parted, heavy breaths escaping his mouth, his dark hair disheveled beyond repair and mussed up against the pillow (only a shower could fix that up, and that was on my plan for the day). In an adorable fashion, his hands were clasped on the exact same spot I'd slept in, as if taking in my warmth.

I sat on the edge of the bed, and the duvet began to slip off, revealing his torso, and he began to mumble slightly in his semi-asleep state. My heart warming at the very sight, my fingers involuntarily crept up to brush back his long locks, giggling a bit to myself as my palms brushed against his scruffy beard.

Paul began to slowly open his eyes, soon revealing those honey irises that warmed me up to the very core without even doing much but glance at me with that mix of mischief and innocence.

"Morning," his voice came out a bit uneven, letting out a yawn like a kitten's as he stretched with remarkable agility, pushing himself upright and leaning in to give me another one of his chaste but sweet morning kisses.

My reply of, "Morning," came out muffled against his smiling mouth, before pulling away to place the tray on his lap, softly whispering, "Happy birthday, my love."

His eyes lit up in the most endearing way, cheeks almost completely rosy as he admired the plates of fruits, eggs, and freshly baked croissants, with the side of mango juice.

"Thank you," his voice came out quiet, before he cleared his throat twice, the blush still prominent on his angelic face, "You spoil me too much, I swear."

Laughing as I swung my legs up, cuddling into his side as much as was possible with him digging into his breakfast, I began to run my fingers through his silky hair, relishing in the view of him leaning into my touch---if he could purr, he would.

"Bold of you to assume that there should be a limit to spoiling you. You deserve it."

Delicately, he picked up a grape, turning to me and giving me that infuriating smirk of his, popping it into my mouth and watching as I happily ate.

"Say, Paul," I hummed, as my husband pushed away the now-spotless tray and rested his head on my lap, earnest eyes egging me on to finish my sentence, "Do you have any requests for your birthday?"

He thought for a moment, then shrugged, a relaxed look spreading on his face as his hand clutched mine gently, pressing a tender kiss against the back as his beard scraped lightly against my skin.

"Not that I know of, no. Thank you, my dear," he paused a cheeky look on his face, "Although I do have a question for you."

"Anything," I rushed reassuringly, my mind set on making this birthday, our first as a married couple, absolutely remarkable for him.

His voice took on that soft lilt he always had while singing, as he cooed sweetly with shimmering hazel eyes and fluttering lashes, "Will you still need me? Will you still feed me? When I'm sixty-four?"

¤¤¤