Starting Over

Epilogue

Warmth.

A word usually associated when one thinks of the rays of the sun touching the skin, the breeze during summertime, the aroma of coffee and the first sip, or maybe the unpleasant feeling of being in the middle of a crowd, pressed in between people. But for a person like Sean whose one of his primary love languages is touch, warmth is associated with contact –whether it may be physical, mental or emotional.

Funny how over the years he was accustomed to waking up with warmth, that he basically knew who is or is not beside him, as he naturally memorizes their presence. He only knew of one, though; someone he was greatly familiar with. The smoothness of her skin, the curve of her waist, her petite body in contrast to his broad, but perfectly fits into his mold. Since he was young, he had dreamed of waking up to her warmth for the rest of his life, and he was well aware that she did, too.

But life goes in its natural course and he had long realized it will not always be the way he wanted it to.

Sean blinked up the last remnants of sleep from his eyes, vision slowly adjusting to his wakefulness. He gradually registered the warmth he already grown accustomed to over the past five years, and he sighed as he turned to his side, meeting thick black hair all over the sheets, his chest meeting her forehead. Sleepily, he looked down to observe her beautiful, peaceful state, her thick bangs almost falling over her closed eyes now. He smiled, bringing his fingers over the exposed skin over her forehead, feeling her temperature, before planting a kiss on her head, granting her more time of sleep.

But it was all futile when he heard the bang of the door, rapid footfalls on the floor, and the next thing he knew, a heavy weight fell atop his stomach, knocking the air out of him.

"Oof!" he grunted painfully, holding the culprit steady. "Angel, careful, please? We don't want to wake your sister do we?"

But the brown-haired girl continued bouncing on his stomach excitedly, disregarding her dad's words. The girl beside him was already stirring in her sleep. "But mommy thaid I have to wake you up!" she said, her voice too loud in that early morning.

"What did mommy exactly say?"

The girl bit her lip, but grinned at him mischievously, one front-tooth missing. "To uthe indoor voith 'cauth Amber ith thick," she said.

"Exactly," he said, smiling at her sleepily. He looked at his older daughter beside him, and watched how her eyes fluttered open, and immediately sought for his warmth. "Too late," Sean mumbled, as he turned to wrap an arm around his sick daughter. "Feeling better, princess?" he asked gently; Amber nodded sleepily. "Ready to get up and eat?" She nodded again. "Alright. Tell mommy we're coming out okay?" he told his younger daughter who enthusiastically jumped to the floor and ran from the room in a flash.

"Breakfath tiiime!" Hazel yelled, her voice echoing through the halls, footsteps thundering across the floor.

Sean shook his head with a smile, still unable to fathom where his daughter got this energy from and whom she took after with all that enthusiasm.

He padded into the kitchen barefooted, eldest daughter on his hip, her head tucked against his neck.

The sight that greeted him never failed to make his heart swell, and he prayed that no amount of familiarity would even dampen that feeling. Four-year-old Hazel was perched on a stool by the breakfast bar, elbows leaning on the marble table as she watched her mommy prepare her food, his wife oblivious to his observant eyes as she kissed the top of her brown hair.

She was exceptionally stunning that morning (and he knew she would definitely beg to differ and would start ranting how fat, swollen, and ugly she looks); rocking that tight bun and pink headband, a larger maternity bra and his boxers, and his favorite sight –her bulging stomach.