The Stranger I Married-Chapter 125: Breakfast in bed

The sun had only just begun to filter through the sheer curtains when Nicholas stirred beside her.

He woke with a quiet breath, one arm already instinctively curved around Ella’s waist. Her back was nestled against his chest, her breathing slow and even, the faintest flutter of a sigh escaping her lips. For a moment, he didn’t move. Just lay there, still, the early morning silence humming gently around them.

She was warm in his arms, her skin soft under his fingertips, the curve of her hip fitting perfectly into his palm. The nightmare still lingered at the edge of his mind—hazy but persistent, like smoke curling around the base of his skull. He didn’t want to remember it, but his body did. The weight in his chest. The panic clawing at his ribs. The echo of her name, shouted into the void.

But then he’d opened his eyes and found her beside him.

Breathing. Alive.

And that made all the difference.

Slowly, carefully, he pulled back from her without waking her. She stirred only slightly, rolling into the space he’d left behind, fingers curling loosely into the sheets. Her bruises had faded a little. Not gone yet. Not enough to make him forget what had happened. But she was healing.

She was here.

Nicholas sat at the edge of the bed for a moment, hands braced on his knees, staring at the floor with a thoughtful frown. Then, as if making a decision to shake off the remnants of the dream, he rose. A glance at the clock on the nightstand told him it was just after seven.

He smiled faintly.

She always said he could afford to sleep in. Today, he decided, she’d be the one staying in bed.

He padded barefoot to the kitchen, the penthouse still hushed in its early morning slumber. The staff had yet to begin their quiet routines; Rosa would have them wait until Nicholas gave the signal. He appreciated that.

For now, he wanted to do this himself.

He rolled up the sleeves of his T-shirt, tied an apron around his waist (a ridiculous gift from Max that said "CEO of Breakfast" in gaudy gold letters), and got to work. Eggs. Sourdough toast. Fresh fruit. He took his time with it, humming under his breath, his hands steady and practiced. He was good in the kitchen—Ella had admitted that once with a surprised smile, like she hadn’t expected it of him.

He’d nearly burned the next batch of eggs from how hard he’d grinned.

When the tray was ready—complete with a small vase holding one pale pink ranunculus he’d stolen from the arrangement in the dining room—Nicholas returned to the bedroom with quiet, measured steps.

She was still asleep.

Tucked beneath the soft layers of the duvet, hair tousled, face relaxed in the rare kind of peace that sleep only offered after pain. He set the tray down carefully on the nightstand, then leaned down and pressed his lips gently to her shoulder.

"Ella," he whispered. "Rise and shine, sweetheart."

She shifted with a sleepy groan, her nose crinkling. "Mmmph. What time is it?"

"Too early for CEO responsibilities," he murmured, brushing her hair off her forehead. "Just right for breakfast in bed."

Her eyes opened slowly, blinking up at him.

"You cooked?"

"I do that sometimes. When I’m trying to impress a girl."

Ella smiled softly. "That so?"

He reached for the tray, settling it over her lap as she pushed herself up carefully, wincing just a little. Immediately, Nicholas was there, tucking pillows behind her back, adjusting the duvet around her legs.

"I’ve got it," she murmured, touched by his fussing.

"I know you do," he said, kissing her temple. "But I’ve got you, too. Let me be annoying about it."

She chuckled.

Nicholas sat beside her, one knee propped up, one hand idly running over the fabric at her shin. "Try the eggs. I added rosemary. Very high-end, very inspired."

She forked a bite, still sleepy-eyed but curious. The moment the flavor hit her tongue, her brows lifted in pleased surprise. "Oh wow."

He smirked. "Right?"

"I think this is better than the chef’s."

"I’ll take that as a formal invitation to replace him."

"I said it was better. I didn’t say I wanted you in an apron full-time."

He clutched his chest. "Brutal. I see how it is."

Ella laughed again, and the sound made his entire body relax. She was still a little pale, and the bruises on her arms were still healing, but that laugh—that laugh was stronger. Clearer. Hers.

He plucked a strawberry from the tray and held it out toward her lips. "Let me."

She arched a brow. "You’re feeding me now?"

"I am. Because you had a terrifying week, and I had a terrifying dream, and frankly, baby, I’m making up for all of it with fruit and flattery."

She leaned forward, lips brushing his fingertips as she bit into the strawberry.

Nicholas watched her chew with an expression that bordered on reverent.

When she swallowed, she gave him a curious look. "What are you staring at?"

"You," he said honestly. "Looking like sunshine. And you’re mine."

Ella rolled her eyes, blushing faintly. "That’s so unfair."

"What?"

"Saying things like that while feeding me strawberries."

He grinned, mischief lighting his eyes. "I have to work with what I’ve got."

She reached for another slice of toast, but he caught her wrist gently. "Ah-ah. You’re on strict spoiled-girl orders today."

"And who exactly gave that order?"

"Me." He popped a small piece of toast into her mouth. "Dictator of toast. Obey."

She giggled around the bite, eyes gleaming now. "You’re ridiculous."

"And charming."

"And full of yourself."

He leaned in close, his voice dropping. "And hopelessly in love with you."

The teasing dropped away for a moment. Just a breath of stillness, his gaze locking with hers.

Ella blinked slowly, her expression softening. "I know."

Nicholas leaned in and kissed her forehead, then her cheek, then the tip of her nose.

When he pulled back, she touched his hand.

"Thank you for breakfast."

"Anytime, baby." His voice was light again. "Tomorrow, I’ll make pancakes in the shape of your initials."

"Please don’t."

"Oh, it’s too late," he said. "I’ve already ordered the specialized pans."

Ella laughed so hard she had to set her fork down. Nicholas, pleased beyond reason by the sound, simply fed her another piece of fruit with a triumphant grin.

Outside, the city stirred. But inside their quiet cocoon, it was just them. Strawberries. Soft sheets. And the kind of joy that came not from grand gestures—but from knowing someone loved you enough to make breakfast before the world woke up.