The honeymooners were still in the same rustic cabin, nestled in the embrace of towering pines, as a sanctuary of warmth and quiet intimacy.
The kitchen, dimly lit by the soft glow of a single lantern hanging above the wooden counter, smelled of simmering herbs and the promise of a hearty dinner.
Tristan stood at the counter, his slender frame bathed in the golden light, his focus entirely on the skillet sizzling with a mixture of vegetables and spices. His black hair fell loosely around his face, and his golden eyes narrowed in concentration as he stirred the dish with practiced ease.
The woolen tunic he wore, a deep forest green, clung gently to his frame, hinting at the lean muscles beneath. His narrow shoulders were tense, a subtle sign of his dedication to perfecting the meal for his husband.
