"Snow, you know that is /my/ bed you're lying on."
“No, it’s my bed,” Simon protested, trying to shove me away with his flailing, golden, drunk arms.
I tried to convince him that that was, in fact, my bed, but I had a feeling I’d ingested quite a few pints myself, so I just fell into the sheets beside him and tried to ignore the fact that Simon bloody Snow was pressed up against my side and was warm, warm, warm.
When I woke up, I felt Simon’s laugh before I heard it, and I asked him what was so funny.
“We argued over whose bed this was.”
Slowly, I blinked my eyes open, my gaze drifting over to Simon’s grinning face and remembered, oh yeah, we’re married.
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