Rhys awoke with a smile on his face. Perhaps he'd been dreaming of Isaac. Yawning, he reached out under the covers, knowing that his husband's side of the bed would have long since gone cold. As early as Isaac rose, Rhys slept late. It was now well past dawn and the sheets were chilly to his touch.
He sat up and pushed back the covers, shivering at the change of temperature. Finding his soft-soled house shoes nearby, he slipped them over his bare feet and clambered over the bed to the edge of the sleeping loft, the soft cotton flannel of his loose pants tugging against the wool of the blankets. He climbed down the ladder to the main room of the little house.
Smile still on his face, whether from forgotten dreams or a sense of what the day would bring, he went into the kitchen. On the table was a note from Isaac. Every day, as regular and reliable as the bells in the cathedral tower, he left one there.
Rhys's smile widened as he read the single scrawled sentence. Then he set the note back on the table, placed a clean mug for tea beside it, and went to heat water. He would wash, breakfast, and set to work-and spend the day in anticipation of the sweet promise in his husband's love note.